


Paradox

by MiriFern



Category: Michael Jackson (Musician)
Genre: Also one of the side characters was supposed to be revealed as an omnipotent alien, And one of them can travel through dimensions????, But I never got around to that part :/, F/M, Gen, I never finished this blasted thing and now I feel guilty, MJ's got three extra sons, Sci fi elements later on, Wacky AU where MJ was married before Lisa Marie Presley, um what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriFern/pseuds/MiriFern
Summary: Michael Jackson has been pronounced dead. His family, friends, and fans are all in mourning. No one knows the truth. The King of Pop is very much alive, but he is being held prisoner by a mysterious individual who claims he is the only one who can save him.Michael Jackson's six children struggle with their grief. While Prince, Paris, and Blanket are thrust into the public eye, Jackson's three eldest sons, Tobias, Arthur, and Donovan, are drifting apart. Tobias just wants to move on, but Arthur feels trapped. And Donovan doesn't seem to care at all.





	1. Original Summary, Family Tree, and Dramatis Personae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote this toward the tail end of 2016, right before I switched from being obsessed with Michael Jackson (for almost six years, ever since 2011) to being obsessed with Jeffrey Dahmer. Weird, I know, but that's the way it goes in my town.  
> I had written Lord knows how many MJ fanfics on various sites, most of which are now lost. This was my last one. I put an unwarranted amount of time and effort into it (although technically it was inspired by/a ripoff of another person's story on a deleted site, which I can't remember the name of unfortunately... it was actually much better than this and had a really great twist) and I was rather proud of the result. Now that it's been over a year, I look back on it fondly and without remorse, but also with no desire to actually finish it, even though it was slated to have only three or four chapters left to go!  
> I may pick it up again sometime, what with my MJ fascination having never truly gone away, but for right now, it's technically dead. Much like MJ himself is in the story.

  
Paradox by Miri Fern

  
Summary: 

Michael Jackson has been pronounced dead. His family, friends, and fans are all in mourning. No one knows the truth. The King of Pop is very much alive, but he is being held prisoner by a mysterious individual who claims he is the only one who can save him.

 

Michael Jackson's six children struggle with their grief. While Prince, Paris, and Blanket are thrust into the public eye, Jackson's three eldest sons, Tobias, Arthur, and Donovan, are drifting apart. Tobias just wants to move on, but Arthur feels trapped. And Donovan doesn't seem to care at all.

  
Categories: This Is It: 2006-2009, Angst, Drama, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Mystery, Romance, Sci Fi, Suspense, Thriller, Trigger Warning! Characters:  Lisa Marie Presley, Michael, Original Girl  
General Warnings:  Mild Violence, Some Scenes of a Sexual Nature, Strong Language  
Trigger Warnings:  Alcohol Abuse, Attempted Suicide, Child Abuse, Death, Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Kidnapping, Neglect, Physical Abuse, Racism  
Challenges: None  
Series: None  
Chapters:  10 Completed: No  
Word count: 20763 Read: 2867  
Published: Oct 07, 2016 Updated: Jan 25, 2017 

Story Notes:

_A/N: I’m using this fanfic as a way of practicing my writing and trying out new techniques. Expect infrequent updates. I will make many references to movies, books, and music; this is always deliberate. Whether you’ve heard of it or not, I recommend looking up the things I mention to gain a better understanding of the themes in this story._

Dramatis Personae by Miri Fern

Author's Notes:

This is a list of all the characters featured in the story. It is here for reference only and can be skipped.

**Silvestri Family Tree - http://www.familyecho.com/?p=WQRVA &c=so6kuegjs6&f=903312936879862252**

_Characters (in order of appearance)_

**Michael Jackson (age 50)**

Perhaps the most famous entertainer in the world, the announcement of his death on June 25, 2009 has left the public reeling. Michael himself was quite shocked to discover he had been pronounced deceased. Currently he is being held in an unknown location, and with his health being poor, he has been unable to investigate or attempt to escape. All he knows is that they claim to want to help him recover, although given the circumstances that statement is questionable at best...

**Clara Silvestri Jackson**

Michael's late wife. The daughter of a Hollywood actor, she met Michael in 1982 and they were married the following year. Killed in a car accident in 1990, she left behind her husband and three young sons. To her family's horror, the media has continued to launder conspiracy theories that she faked her death in order to escape her marriage.

**Tobias Jackson (age 24)**

The eldest son of Michael Jackson and Clara Silvestri. He has a twin brother, Arthur. Like his father, Toby went into show business, becoming a singer under the stage name "Lazarus". He is married to Fatima, a Somali dancer. They have no children.

**Arthur Jackson (age 24)**

The second son of Michael Jackson and Clara Silvestri and the twin of Tobias. For most of his life, he has been tormented by claims that he looks "too white" to be MJ's son and therefore must have had a different father. Arthur followed in the footsteps of his grandfather Lorenzo and became an actor, starring in numerous films. He had a daughter, Johanna, with the screenwriter Morgan DeMille, whom he never married.

**Donovan "D" Jackson (age 22)**

The youngest son of Michael Jackson and Clara Silvestri. He is the most mysterious of the three, having managed to hide his whereabouts and personal life from the world. Unfortunately, he is also very distant from his family, rarely speaking to his brothers, who often have no idea where he is or how to contact him. When he does show up, it's usually only for a brief time. Sometimes he seems to disappear into thin air!

**Fatima Jackson**

The wife of Tobias Jackson. Born in Somalia, she moved to America at the age of fourteen. She met Tobias while working as a backup dancer at one of his shows.

**Lorenzo Silvestri (age 77)**

The father of Clara and Elena. Born in Italy, he ran away to America to pursue a career as an actor. He is divorced from the mother of his children, Julia Krause, and has since married Vanessa Redwall, a fellow actress. He is very fond of Michael, viewing him as a son, and of his grandchildren.

**Julia Krause (age 74)**

Clara and Elena's mother. Originally from the South, she changed her last name from Wilkes to Krause and attempted to launch a career as an actress, but never achieved success. She divorced Lorenzo when her daughters were in their teens and remarried as many as six times - she keeps exaggerating the numbers. Having disapproved of Clara's marriage to Michael, she has never even met her grandchildren. Currently she lives in Georgia and cares for Elena.

**Elena Silvestri (age 55)**

Clara's older sister. For most of her early life she managed to stay out of the spotlight. Her marriage to Rick Fraser, a respectable banker, was overshadowed by her sister's wedding to MJ. She and Rick had a daughter, Tiffany, in 1985. No one knows for certain what went wrong, but a few years later the couple was embroiled in an ugly divorce. Elena won custody of Tiffany only to lose her rights after a suicide attempt. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia and currently resides with her mother in Georgia.

**Tiffany Fraser (age 24)**

Clara's niece. The daughter of Elena and Rick, she is the cousin of Toby, Arthur, and D. In 1989, after her mother's failed suicide attempt, she was taken in by Clara and Michael and lived at Neverland Ranch for a year. Currently she works with computers and lives with her ailing father.

**Merle Sinclair**

An actor who served as a mentor figure to Arthur. Coincidentally, he briefly dated Clara before she met Michael. Tabloids have suggested he may be Arthur's biological father.

**Morgan DeMille**

A Hollywood screenwriter. She is the mother of Arthur's daughter Johanna, the result of a one-night stand. While they share custody of Johanna, she and Arthur barely speak to each other.

**Evelyn Sharma**

A half-Indian, half-German swimsuit model trying to break into movies. Arthur becomes infatuated with her while working on the movie _Phoenix_.

**Alan Sheridan**

An old boyfriend of Clara's who claims she is still alive.

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://www.mjfiction.com/viewstory.php?sid=7429>  



	2. Original Summary, Family Tree, and Dramatis Personae

 

He awoke in an unfamiliar bed with a massive headache. A woman in her forties was standing beside him. Her hair was her most distinctive feature—dyed titian red, with the roots showing mousy brown. She was adjusting his IV.

 

 _She must be a nurse_ , he thought to himself. _I must be in the hospital. But why?_

 

As his senses slowly returned, he saw that the walls were painted dark blue instead of the usual off-white he associated with hospitals, and there were no windows to let the sunshine in. The floor was carpeted, and the furniture was made out of wood, exquisitely carved to look antique. In fact, he recognized some of the trademarks from his own collection, so at least some of it probably was antique.

 

The woman noticed that he was awake. She gave him a thin smile.

 

“Hello, Mr. Jackson. My name is Rachel. I’m supposed to give you this.”

 

She held out an envelope. He stared at it for a few moments, then reached up to take it. His hands were like wax, thin and transparent, the veins bulging against the bones.

 

“Don’t try to get up yet. You’re still very weak.”

 

“What happened?” he asked. His voice was barely above a whisper, and even that scratched against his throat.

 

Rachel looked hesitant. “You were very sick.” Luckily her cell phone buzzed, saving her from having to answer his questions. “I have to step out. If you need anything, just press the button,” she said, gesturing at a panel on the wall above him. He nodded, too weak to speak.

 

Once she was gone, his eyes drifted to the envelope on his lap. With trembling hands he tore it open and unfolded a handwritten letter.

 

_**Michael Jackson,** _

_**  
** _

_**You are no doubt wondering where you are, who I am, and why I brought you here. I can’t answer the first two questions, but I can provide an answer to the third. You are here to get well. This is only possible under my supervision. Murray is unfit for the job, and you yourself have proven extremely stubborn when it comes to your health and wellbeing.** _

_**  
** _

_**The world currently believes you are dead. Your family, friends, fans, and enemies alike all think you suffered from cardiac arrest brought on by an overdose of propofol. A body double has been presented as yours.** _

_**  
** _

_**You are most likely alarmed at the prospect of being dead to the world, and I’m sure you’re worried about your loved ones. In that regard the only comfort I can offer is that, having reviewed the psych profiles of your family members and close friends, I believe they are all mentally sound enough to handle your death, as well as your inevitable “resurrection”. Indeed, you will see them again when the time is right.** _

_**  
** _

_**Until then, do not try to pester my assistants for more information. They don’t have the answers. And don’t worry—I will only give you the necessary medications to ensure your full recovery.** _

_**  
** _

_**Sincerely,** _

_**A Friend** _

 

His left hand, the bony fingers still clutching the paper, dropped onto the blanket. His right hand reached up and covered his eyes.

 

_Dead… They all think I’m dead?..._

 

The throbbing headache worsened. Letting go of the letter, he pressed the button to summon Rachel.

 

She arrived almost immediately. “What is it, Mr. Jackson?”

 

“I want to go back to sleep,” he whispered, “Is there anything you can give me?...”

 

Rachel held back. Her expression spoke of sadness and pity. “I’m sorry. I can’t—”

 

“Please,” he struggled to rise, “Just this once. Just enough to help me sleep.”

 

The color drained from her face. White as a ghost, she closed the door on him.

 

 

“Don’t go! Please! Don’t leave me!...”


	3. Funeral For a King

Part I, Lazarus; Chapter 1: Funeral For A King

 

_July 7, 2009_

_Staples Center, Los Angeles, California_

 

Solid bronze, plated with 14-karat gold and lined with blue velvet, Michael Jackson’s casket sat at the front of the stage. An enormous bouquet of blood-red roses had exploded on top of it, the multi-colored flowers surrounding it like shrapnel.

 

The Staples Center was packed with people, so much so that one might think they had come to see a performance rather than a funeral. While the family had spared no expense when it came to the memorial arrangements, the city spent millions of dollars on protection. Police officers had to be hired to restrain the hysterical crowds of mourning fans that had gathered outside. Even in the oppressive July heat, they continued to scream, cry, and chant their idol’s name for the entire three-hour event.

 

Within the cool interior of the building, the black-clad family of the deceased huddled together on the stage like bats. His brothers and sisters all wore sunglasses to hide their swollen, reddened eyes, the women also covering their heads with black hats.

 

His younger children, for so long shielded behind masks and sheets, were laid bare for all the world to see. Little Paris was supported by her Aunt Janet while the younger Prince clung to the elder, whose gaze was far away.

 

Standing beside them were their three half-brothers, the results of Michael’s marriage to a woman named Clara Silvestri.

 

The two eldest were twins, Tobias and Arthur, aged 25. They looked nothing alike. “Toby”, older by two minutes, had a more rugged look, while Arthur was clean-cut.

 

Both had followed their father’s footsteps and gone into the entertainment business. Toby had become a singer; he was better known to the public by his stage name, Lazarus. Though he usually loved the spotlight, now he had his head down and his eyes closed. Holding his hand tightly was his wife Fatima, a beautiful Somali dancer.

 

Arthur was an actor. His hair was dyed blonde for his latest movie. He had been crying the entire time, and everyone could see it, though he made a show of seeming calm and collected.

 

The third son was named Donovan, but was called “D”. His skin was pale from lack of sunlight and his body was stick thin. Long black hair hung loose down his back and over his shoulders, curling wildly. His eyes were gray as storm clouds. No one knew much about him.

 

When Paris broke down in tears, choking out a few words of love for her father, she was quickly enveloped by her aunts and uncles and led off the stage amid roaring applause. Toby and Fatima drifted like ghosts after them, their arms around each other. Arthur followed a few steps behind, the marks of fresh tears shining on his cheeks. D was the last to go, his gaze traveling to his father’s coffin and lingering there. His eyes were clear and dry as he descended the stairs.

 

***

 

Just a few weeks ago, all three boys had flown out to London to visit their father.

 

Michael sat across from Toby, his emaciated body nearly devoured by the plush couch. Arthur was up and about, constantly walking in and out of the kitchen, bringing everyone something to drink, pacing and fidgeting. D sat alone in an armchair, staring at the glass of ice in his hand.

 

They chatted about this and that, their conversation hopping from various topics but never quite getting to what they all wanted to say. Finally, Toby put it into words: “Dad, are you okay?”

 

Michael looked taken aback by the question. Arthur stopped in his tracks. D raised his eyes and stared at them, waiting.

 

“Of course I’m okay,” Michael answered finally, “In fact, I feel great.”

 

They all looked at his thin, frail form and knew something was very wrong.

 

But they also knew better than to pry into his affairs. If he said he was all right, it meant they couldn’t ask.

 

None of them had expected him to die, of course.

 

Toby washed his hands in the bathroom sink. The funeral had ended two hours ago. He was moving as slowly and meticulously as possible, trying to prolong the inevitable.

 

After drying his hands, he peeled off his black mourning jacket and loosened his tie—the heat was starting to get to him. For a moment he hesitated, his hand hovering over the pocket. He bit his lip and reached inside, pulling out a pair of sunglasses. Once they were on his face, he felt shielded from the world. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to need protection now more than ever.

 

Draping his jacket over his arm, he started to walk toward the bathroom door but faltered. A rickety sigh escaped him. The oppressive heat was gone, and he felt a chill. God, he didn’t want to go out there! He didn’t want to face the crowds, the cameras. He didn’t want to have to deal with his father’s misguiding advisors, incompetent handlers, and bloodsucking “friends” offering their phony condolences. His father was dead because of them!

 

He touched his clammy forehead with a trembling hand and began to pace, trying to muster up the courage to leave.

 

The door opened and Fatima came in.

 

“This is the men’s room, baby,” he said, managing a hoarse laugh.

 

She smiled at him, but her brow was creased with lines of worry. “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah, I—I’ll be fine,” he murmured, pushing one arm through his jacket.

 

She took hold of the other side and held it up for him. “Your grandfather’s here.”

 

He sighed. He’d never had a very good relationship with the Jackson family patriarch, but tensions between them had skyrocketed when Joe used the media coverage surrounding his son’s death as a pulpit to promote his new record label. As for the wake, so far Joe had been a no-show.

 

Thankfully, Fatima shook her head. “Not Joseph. Lorenzo.”

 

That gave him pause. “Why is he here?” he whispered.

 

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug, “but his arrival is causing quite a stir...”

 

Toby smoothed the edge of his jacket and opened the door. A faint shadow of a smile passed over his wan, grief-haggard face. “After you, miss.”

 

They’d rented the whole restaurant, and still there were people without seats. So far there hadn’t been any unwanted spectators or voyeurs at the windows, but given the star-studded attendees, the wake was bound to draw attention eventually.

 

Gazing out at the crowd, Toby found his hand once more slipping into Fatima’s. His eyes scanned the tables, looking for a familiar face. He heard his grandfather’s distinct Italian accent and rich, velvety voice long before he spotted Lorenzo Silvestri sitting at the bar.

 

Arthur sat beside him, starstruck, staring at Lorenzo with wide eyes. Even D, who was perched on his other side, seemed at least mildly interested in what he was saying. That was the sort of power he held over others.

 

Toby couldn’t seem to get over there fast enough. Lorenzo lived in his native Tuscany, far away from them all. Toby tried to keep in touch with his mother’s family, but try as he might something always came up, whether it was work, play, or just plain old life. The last time he could recall they had spent any time together was nearly two years ago.

 

Lorenzo turned around in his chair right as Toby reached him. The old man’s blue eyes lit up and he rose to his feet, holding out his arms. Toby accepted his embrace immediately.

 

“It’s good to see you again,” Lorenzo said when they finally pulled apart.

 

Toby fought the tears that brimmed in his eyes. Thank God he was wearing sunglasses.

 

When the wake was over and the guests started leaving, the three young men were still clustered around their grandfather like satellites around a planet.

 

“Ah! I didn’t realize how late it was getting,” Lorenzo exclaimed after glancing at his watch. “Vanessa will be frantic. Sadly, I must be going...”

 

“How long will you be staying here?” Arthur asked eagerly.

 

“No more than a few days. Perhaps longer if Vanessa will allow,” he added with a smile.

 

“Then it’s settled!” Toby said with a snap of his fingers. “We’ll all have to get together. How about tomorrow?”

 

“I am free tomorrow,” Lorenzo’s eyes darkened. “But I don’t want to steal you away from your father’s family so soon.”

 

“You needn’t worry about stealing the spotlight,” D cut in. His eyelids lowered. “The press is having a field day with this. If anything, it will be difficult to keep us out of the public eye.”

 

Lorenzo cast three weary glances at each of his grandsons, then said, “I’ll see you all tomorrow, then.”

 

***

 

Lorenzo Silvestri was a well-known name. He wasn’t as famous as his son-in-law, of course—but then there were only a handful of people that had reached Michael Jackson’s level of celebrity.

 

Born in a tiny Italian village to a farmer and his wife, when he was sixteen Lorenzo had run away from home. His father had raged against him until the very day he died, saying he had “gone to join the circus, become a clown”. Actually, he had joined a traveling theater troupe, but to his father there was no difference between actors and circus clowns.

 

Eventually, the young Lorenzo found himself in New York, penniless and speaking little English. The theaters there were slow to take him in. He spent the better part of his first year working as a janitor, an errand boy, a scenery changer. He was often mugged on his way to work. Those were dark days; it was easy to lose sight of his dreams.

 

At some point he met Julie Krause, a beautiful young aspiring actress with no talent whatsoever nonetheless caught his eye, and after a whirlwind romance, they were married. Their first daughter, Elena, was born a few months later, and Clara followed in 1957.

 

Lorenzo kept working, rising through the ranks, even as Julie’s career stalled. Once he was given a chance on the stage, his rise to fame was inevitable. He shot out like a comet, upstaging everyone—including his wife, who tearfully threatened divorce. They separated just as Lorenzo starred in his first film.

 

The theater would never be as important in America as it was in the 1960’s again. Broadway actors and Hollywood actors were interchangeable; people came to see them both on the stage and on the silver screen, as if there were no difference between them.

 

Lorenzo was in movies because everyone else was doing it. Films had become darker and grittier, full of sex and violence. Celebrities became reflections of the times, especially the changing views on love and marriage. No one batted an eye when he divorced Julie, nor did they mind when he began a highly publicized affair with another actress, Vanessa Redwall.

 

“Actors must stick with other actors,” Lorenzo said, looking pointedly at Arthur across the table, “because actors understand each other. I married a non-actor, my mistake. We would argue, and she would say, ‘You’re still acting now, pretending! Do you even know when you’re not acting?’ She thought I was pretending to love her, that I was playing games. I married an actress, and we understand each other. We know the difference between the illusion and reality. Look at me—we’ve been together for forty years, and the love is still there. That’s not false, it’s real—it’s truth. Love is truth.”

 

It was easy to see why he and Michael had gotten along. Lorenzo had happily walked his youngest daughter down the aisle in 1984. The same could not be said of Julia, who had changed her name from Wilkes to Krause and gotten rid of her Southern accent, but couldn’t quite shed her prejudices. It hardly mattered—Clara cut ties with her shortly after her parents divorced, and Toby couldn’t recall a single visit or even a phone call from their grandmother.

 

It was not so with Lorenzo, who had come to Neverland Ranch every Christmas even before Michael began celebrating the holiday. Sometimes he brought the reluctant Vanessa along, who had slowly warmed to them over the years, but he always had gifts for them. Toby remembered receiving a bike, a skateboard, entire sets of action figures, a VHS tape of _Robocop_ that had given him nightmares, and of course those damned Super Soakers, which his father had played with more often than he did.

 

The mood soured as memories of Michael came flooding back. Arthur asked to be excused, and Toby knew he was going to the bathroom to cry again. Without him, the three of them soon fell silent.

 

“It’s hard to believe he’s gone,” Lorenzo murmured, stroking his gray beard, “and yet, I somehow felt it coming.” He looked at Toby and at D, and his voice grew gravely serious. “I know something of what Joseph and Katherine are feeling now. Be there for them. Don’t get caught up in your own personal grief. That will only make things worse. Help each other, and all will be well.”

 

Arthur came back, and soon it was time for Lorenzo to leave. They had talked for hours, but it still seemed too little. Each brother stood up to hug him, and once they had said their goodbyes, Lorenzo went on his way.

 

They were still sitting at the table waiting for the check when Toby suddenly said, “I think we should all keep working.”

 

Arthur and D both stared at him. “What do you mean?” Arthur asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

 

“I have a tour planned. I was going to cancel it because of Dad, but I’ve changed my mind. And I’m saying that I think you should keep working on your movie, and D should keep doing whatever, and we’ll just continue on as if none of this ever happened.”

 

“I couldn’t stop filming even if I wanted to,” Arthur replied, “but are you sure that’s a good idea? You’re just going to sweep it under the rug, forget about it?”

 

“I’ll never forget about Dad,” Toby snapped, his voice wavering, “I just think we should keep busy.”

 

“I agree with Toby,” D announced. The twins turned to him. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed nonchalantly.

 

Arthur shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t have a choice. You two do whatever you want.”

 

 

That was the last time the three of them spoke for quite a while.


	4. Bite the Bullet

Part I, Lazarus; Chapter 2: Bite the Bullet

 

Tobias’ vision swam. There was a bright white light shining directly in his eyes one moment, and everything was pitch black in the next. He couldn’t make sense of it.

 

His sight may have been bad, but he could hear clearly. There were voices all around him; hysterical voices, shaky voices, trembling voices, sobbing voices, shouting, screaming, crying. He thought he recognized a few. Let’s see… Fatima was crying, his manager Paul was trying to calm her, Arjen, his guitarist, was mumbling to himself, Eric, his chief bodyguard, was talking to somebody…

 

He wished he knew what was going on. Straining his ears, he tried to discern what Eric was saying. While he couldn’t quite get the gist of it, the name _Brandon Lee_ kept getting brought up.

 

Brandon Lee. Wasn’t he Bruce Lee’s son? He was in a movie… _The Crow_. Tobias remembered seeing it in the theater when he was ten years old.

 

Hadn’t Brandon Lee died on the set? It was in the news. Someone hadn’t loaded the prop gun correctly, and a piece of shrapnel was caught in the barrel. When they went to fire the gun, the shrapnel came out at the same speed as a bullet. The movie got a free boost in publicity, and all the nutcases were saying it was part of some family curse that was passed from father to son.

 

What the fuck did that have to do with anything?

 

He could still hear Fatima sobbing. It was torturous. He wanted to hold her, to tell her everything was all right. But he didn’t even know for sure himself.

 

Come on, what’s the last thing you remember?

 

On the stage. Flashing lights, blaring music. The crowd surging, chanting “Laz-a-rus! Laz-a-rus!” Sweat on the palms of his hands coating the microphone.

 

So something happened at the show. Was he mauled by fans? Did his car crash on the way back to the hotel?

 

No… he was performing when it happened. “Bite the Bullet”. He remembered planning the choreography for that song. Since it was the finale, it had to be special.

 

He decided on some old fashioned theatrics. He’d be standing with the audience to his right, while one of the backup dancers came up from behind and fired a prop gun at him. As soon as he fired, he’d hold up his fist in the air, then unclench his fingers to reveal the bullet. Not the real bullet, of course; he’d covertly fish that one out of his costume.

 

Realization was beginning to dawn on him. Bite the Bullet. Brandon Lee. He’d been shot by the prop gun, hadn’t he?

 

Stay calm. You’re still alive. Fatima’s right there. She’s sniffling now, you hear? Christ. Maybe there really was a family curse, but on the Jacksons. His father had been dead no more than three months, and now he’d nearly been killed.

 

The question was, how bad was the damage? He drummed his fingers, then tried to wiggle his toes. But he couldn’t feel them. Come to think of it, he couldn’t feel his legs, either. Everything from the waist down was—

 

Oh no. Oh God. Not that. _Not that._

 

It couldn’t happen to him, could it? But he knew all it took was a freak accident. A stroke of bad luck...

 

He didn’t want to think about it anymore. He wouldn’t think about it. Think about nothing at all.

 

But it’s a fool’s exercise to think of nothing. He imagined being ten years old again, going to the movies to escape Lisa Marie and the arguments. He remembered watching Brandon Lee crawl out of his own grave and stumble through the alleyways, eventually making his way to his old apartment, still blocked off with police tape. He remembered the stray cat, the Halloween decorations strewn about, broken furniture and glass and rain. The memories of that night came flooding back, visions of his own death turned into entertainment for all the world to see.

 

If he had died there on the stage, would the crowd have cheered, thinking it was all a part of the show?

 

***

 

He was propped up by a mound of pillows. Fatima was standing near the foot of the bed. She looked like she hadn’t slept for days. He was worried about her. She was worried about him. Everyone was worrying themselves sick.

 

The doctor explained the extent of his condition. Sure enough, the prop gun had fired into his spine, resulting in paralysis from the waist down. Paraplegia. He might never walk again, and even if he did regain some mobility, it wouldn’t be the same.

 

He’d also probably be pissing in a bag for the rest of his days, and wouldn’t be able to get it up. That struck him as a particular injustice, and before he could stop himself he said, “You always said I was bad in bed.”

 

Fatima covered her mouth with her hand in an attempt to hide her laughter, then began to sob. The doctor blinked, glanced at the two of them, then muttered something about giving them time to think about it and left the room.

 

Grabbing a tissue, she blew her nose and murmured, “I never said that...”

 

Shaking his head, he realized he was crying, too. He held out his arms to her, and she lay down beside him, her head resting on his shoulder.

 

“Don’t worry about me, baby,” he whispered into her hair. He was about to say _everything will be okay_ , but this time, he stopped himself.

 

***

 

He’d asked for something to read, and Arjen had handed him a magazine. It happened to feature an interview he’d given just after Dad died.

 

_**Q: We’re here with Tobias Jackson, better known as Lazarus. Hello Tobias, how are you?** _

_**A: Just dandy. You?** _

_**Q: Uh, fine, thank you. I understand you’re going on tour soon?** _

_**A: That’s right.** _

_**Q: Forgive me for asking, but doesn’t it seem a little too soon?** _

_**A: This tour has been planned for the last several months. People already bought their tickets. I owe it to my fans to give them what they want.** _

_**Q: I see. You’ll get the tour out of the way, and take a break after that, perhaps?** _

_**A: I could never stop working. If I stop, I’ll lose my mind. That’s the curse of being an artist, I guess. You never have a moment’s rest.** _

_**Q: Sounds like it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.** _

_**A: Oh no, it is. It’s great and all, but it has its downsides, just like any other career. But enough about me. I know you’re dying to ask about Dad.** _

_**Q: Well, actually, I do have some questions for you. Would you mind?** _

_**A: Ask away.** _

_**Q: It’s recently been announced that Michael was in very poor health when he died. Did you ever suspect anything?** _

_**A: My mother died when I was six years old. I lived my whole life waiting for him to leave us, too. He had his demons, just like everyone else. So yes, I knew.** _

_**Q: Didn’t you try to help him?** _

_**A: He wouldn’t let us. Nobody could ever get through to him. Maybe Mom could, but she’s gone, and now he is, too. Hopefully, she’s keeping him in check now.** _

 

Tobias let the magazine drop into his lap. So much had happened since then, he felt like he was reading the words of a completely different person.

 

He hadn’t really been thinking of Michael then, because he’d thrown himself completely into the tour. It was easy for him to banish his doubts and sorrows, so long as he didn’t think about them. Sure, people might look at him and say he was running away from his problems, but that was just his way of dealing with them.

 

But he knew now that it was wrong. Hell, it could have gotten him killed. He wasn’t thinking about Michael, he wasn’t even thinking about his wife or his grieving family; he was just thinking about putting on a good show. About impressing that insane crowd that had put down nearly a hundred bucks each to hear him sing.

 

He wondered if his father ever felt that way. What he was charging these people for didn’t give much back to them. He wasn’t feeding them or clothing them, unless concert t-shirts counted. Sure, they’d have memories and bragging rights, but what else? He didn’t sound nearly as good live as he did in the studio, so they weren’t paying for better quality.

 

Was it just to see him? They could google video footage of him, watch his music videos and interviews. But they wanted to be in his presence. It made him feel like an idol, a golden calf. Something they could use to forget their problems for a few hours. Did his father, in all his saintly glory, ever feel like a common whore when he got up there and gyrated in front of all those people?

 

It didn’t matter anymore. He was never going on tour again. But the rush of relief that ran through him left him feeling cold.

 

Michael always said he hated touring.

 

***

 

The doctors were eager to start him on physical therapy, and after weeks in bed, he was more than happy to comply.

 

He was wheeled into a room with lots of railings and no mirrors. They gave him crutches and he dragged himself around. Eventually he was hobbling along with brace-clad legs, putting his weight on the railings and trying not to fall over.

 

It was during one of these therapy sessions that a visitor arrived. Sensing a presence in the doorway, he looked up to see D.

 

“Hey,” he greeted.

 

“Arthur’s still filming. He sends his regards,” D replied. He was dressed in all black, as was his custom, and looked extra pale today. Tobias was reminded of a vampire waiting to be invited in.

 

“They really do have him by the balls,” Tobias muttered. Then, humoring his imagination, he added, “You can come in, you know.”

 

D walked about halfway into the room before stopping to lean against one of the rails. There was still a lot of space between the two of them.

 

“And where have you been, D?”

 

“Taking care of business.”

 

Tobias sighed. D never talked about himself. He was a stranger not only to the public, but to his own family as well. Not even Michael was allowed to know his secrets.

 

“Heard anything from the kids?”

 

“They seem to be getting by all right. They’ve even asked about you.”

 

Silence fell between the two brothers. Tobias found himself thinking about the day he found out his father had married the pregnant Debbie Rowe.

 

He’d marched into the room with his hands curled into fists by his sides. Michael’d been sitting in an armchair, reading. He looked up and said, “Toby,” with a smile, as if nothing was wrong.

 

Tobias had been afraid this would happen when Lisa Marie came into the picture. It was an unconscious fear, one that every child with a dead parent had—that the survivor would marry again and have more kids that weren’t like them, didn’t understand them, and would ultimately replace them in their parent’s attentions.

 

When things didn’t work out with Lisa Marie, he’d breathed a sigh of relief. Now it all came rushing back with a vengeance. It was baffling to think his entire life could change in a single day.

 

He stared down at his father, still sitting in his chair. The book was closed on his lap, and his expression of confusion was rapidly darkening with bleak understanding.

 

“I’m sorry,” he’d said, looking almost embarrassed, “I should have told you before. But things happened so fast...”

 

Then he’d gone and done it again and again. Prince, Paris, Blanket. The same number of kids he’d had with Mom, as if he was trying to outdo himself the way he tried to outdo _Thriller_.

 

Where were those adolescent feelings of betrayal and hurt now? He’d come to a new conclusion. Prince and Paris and Blanket were just kids, and they’d lost the same person as him. He imagined it was worse for them, though—now they had to grow up without a father.

 

Tobias had shed his tears and tried to forget. Everyone else around him was still in mourning. It hung over the world like a funeral shroud. All the hate, all the doubt, the rumors, the suspicions—all mysteriously gone, as if they had never been. One doesn’t speak ill of the dead. Or was it because they were just now realizing all that they had lost?

 

Grief was selfish, he realized. They cried not because he had lost his life, but because they had lost him.

 

 

When he came out of his reminisce, he realized with a start that D was no longer there. He looked around the room, but there was no sign of him. He’d simply up and left. His departure was so inconspicuous, Tobias found himself wondering if he had ever been there at all.


	5. Blood Is Thicker Than Water

Part I, Lazarus; Chapter 3: Blood Is Thicker Than Water

 

His manager Paul, a tall, thin man with dark hair that grayed stylishly at his temples, came to visit one day. With him was a fat little balding man.

 

The fat man introduced himself as Mr. Morton, and claimed to represent the company that had put together the tour. He had a stack of paperwork with him.

 

“We fired the guy who was handling the props,” he explained, “The police are investigating him, but it looks like it was just negligence on his part, not foul play.” At a nudge from Paul, he added, “We’re paying your hospital bills.”

 

He placed a form in front of Tobias and handed him a pen.

 

“We’ve acknowledged our failure. There’s no reason to prosecute us.”

 

There was a dotted line at the bottom of the sheet. Tobias stared at it until the line seemed solid.

 

“Shouldn’t I have my lawyer look at this first?”

 

Mr. Morton glanced up at Paul, who nodded. The fat man waddled out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

 

“They’re afraid you’ll sue them.”

 

“I can see that. But I don’t sign anything without looking it over first. Wouldn’t want to accidentally sign my soul away to the Devil.”

 

“After what happened with your father…” Paul trailed off, sighing. “I don’t think you should sign it. Let them be held accountable.”

 

Tobias snorted. “To be honest, I’d rather just get this over with.”

 

“I know. But that’s what your father did, and look where it got him.”

 

Tobias glared at Paul. “I don’t see how this has anything to do with _that_ ,” he snapped.

 

“You’re right,” Paul replied, leaning his back against the wall and crossing his arms, “Michael stood accused of a crime, and you’ve been paralyzed because someone made a stupid mistake. But the lesson still stands. You should play the victim, not the forgiver.”

 

“What are you getting at?”

 

“Go ahead and sue them. Make it a public spectacle. Give the press a run for their money. And at the end of the day, they’ll look at you and know you can’t be fucked with.” Paul reached for the door handle. “Think about it.”

 

***

 

He was alone with his thoughts again. The current bore him along to a new place, a new subject; in his mind’s eye he saw a sensitive young man. Too sensitive...

 

It was Arthur, his twin. They weren’t identical, but whenever someone used the word _twin_ , it was in conjunction with _doppelganger_ and _lookalike_. But Tobias and Arthur looked so different from each other, people would often fail to realize they were related.

 

Tobias had skin a faintly reddish-brown hue and the same high cheekbones the Jacksons attributed to their Indian heritage. His hair was black and his eyes were dark brown. The resemblance to his father was obvious.

 

Arthur was like their mother. His eyes were blue and his hair was brown. He was born as pale as the driven snow, and only after years spent in the California sunshine did it begin to tan.

 

As a child he’d looked at Arthur and seen a stranger staring back at him. When Clara explained to them that they had grown together inside her—“kicking worse than Jacob and Esau”—it had been difficult for him to imagine.

 

Once, he’d overheard his uncles talking about Arthur. “If it weren’t for Toby, I’d wonder if he was Michael’s son. He just looks too white.” Tobias sensed something strange in his tone of voice. Bitterness, perhaps? Resentment? He didn’t know and didn’t want to understand.

 

But that wasn’t the end of it. Their mother’s fatal crash aggravated wild old tabloid stories. “Witnesses” came out of the woodwork, claiming they had seen her alive. The most popular conspiracy theory was that Clara, tired of living in the shadow of Michael Jackson, had faked her death and ran away to South America with her lover. And if she was willing to do all that, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to claim that her children weren’t really Michael’s.

 

The media scrutinized them from the moment they tumbled out of the womb, all because they bore the Jackson name. The mere fact that Arthur didn’t look much like Michael was enough to raise eyebrows. “Is he really Tobias’ twin? Was he adopted? Is he someone else’s son? A surrogate mother, perhaps? Or a bastard?”

 

Even when they were too young to comprehend what it all meant, Tobias could see how much it bothered Arthur. It bothered Michael too. He remembered Michael wrapping his arm around Arthur’s shoulders when they were in the car, after a particularly brutal barrage by reporters. His soft voice was hushed, but Tobias had clearly made out the words “It doesn’t matter. You’ll always be mine.”

 

The whole process was repeated, of course, when Prince, Paris, and Blanket were born. Blonde-haired Prince and blue-eyed Paris were too white to be Michael Jackson’s children; it must have been the dermatologist. Blanket’s mother was unknown, so the tabloids dug deep, trying to discern her identity, her race, and most importantly her true relationship to Michael. Had they even had sex, or was it all done in a test tube?

 

In the end, what did it all really matter? Plenty of other celebrities adopted children, or conceived in the most unnatural ways. But with him, they honed in on it as if it were unspeakably bizarre. What were they trying to prove? That Michael Jackson was too gay, too asexual, too pedophilic to have a relationship with a woman? Was he too famous to have a family? Was he too strange to love?

 

But he knew the answer already. It was because his name was Michael Jackson.

 

***

 

_September 29, 1990_

_Neverland Valley Ranch, California_

 

Three year old D sat on Clara’s lap in the living room. She was reading to him, her blue eyes scanning the pages. Arthur was on the floor in front of her, playing with Legos. Tobias was sitting on the couch, watching TV. Next to him was a girl with hair the color of cornsilk—his cousin Tiffany. She wore denim overalls and was small, underdeveloped, almost malnourished.

 

The phone rang. Clara stopped reading, set D down on the floor, and left the room.

 

Cartoons. Tiffany’s name. His mother’s voice grew louder. “...for the last time, the answer is no!”

 

Michael came in. He looked pale. “Turn the TV down for a few minutes, please.”

 

Tobias obeyed, and Michael picked up the other phone, pressed it to his ear. He listened. His eyes fell on Tiffany. She started to cry.

 

“Why are you crying?” Arthur asked. He was missing his two front teeth.

 

Michael dropped the phone and went to pick her up, held her as if she were his own daughter.

 

The phone call abruptly ended. Clara came back. When she saw Tiffany sobbing, she let out a flustered sigh.

 

“Great. How much did you all hear?”

 

Tobias and Arthur exchanged confused looks. D waddled over to Clara and gripped her leg. She bent down to scoop him up, and strangely, everything seemed to go back to normal.

 

But later that night, as he lay in bed, he thought he heard voices downstairs. He got out of bed and went out into the hallway, straining his ears to hear what they were saying.

 

He had never heard his parents argue before, but it sounded like they were having one now. Clara’s normally deep voice had risen in pitch due to anger. “This is the sixth time he’s called, and he’s still begging to have her! And after everything Elena said he did to them…”

 

“Maybe she lied. Maybe he didn’t do anything.”

 

“Are you blind? Don’t you remember what Tiffany looked like when we picked her up? All covered in bruises, and skinny as a rail—”

 

“Elena could have done that to her. Rick was gone for months before we took her in. Those bruises were fresh.”

 

“How did you know he was gone? I never—were you listening to our conversation?!”

 

There was a moment’s hesitation. “I wanted to know what he wanted. He keeps calling, there must be something—”

 

“You know what? Stay out of this. God knows I keep out of your family’s business. Stay out of mine!”

 

Tobias ran back into his room and jumped into bed, pulling the covers up over his head. He was scared, but at the same time even more confused than before. Downstairs, they kept arguing about his Aunt Elena and Uncle Rick and Tiffany, always Tiffany.

 

Finally, he heard a sound he would not forget—the front door slamming shut. His mother was gone.

 

***

 

He hadn’t really thought about it all until now. It had happened while he was still too young to understand what was going on. The events had seemed a jumbled mess, and he was wary of trying to piece them all together.

 

But now he had all the time in the world to think about those strange days when Tiffany lived with them.

 

His parents brought her home from the airport one afternoon. They sat down to have dinner, and Tiffany was there, poking at her food. He hadn’t noticed the bruises they spoke of, but she did act very strange.

 

For the first two weeks or so, she wet the bed every night. She cried for no reason. Arthur tried to get her to play with him once, but she refused. She barely spoke, and even then only to Michael. Simple things—she would ask him for a drink or a snack, or if she could go to the bathroom. She had to ask to go to the bathroom, and never just went.

 

Clara told them Tiffany was her niece, the daughter of her sister Elena and her husband Rick. Tobias vaguely remembered meeting them. Elena looked a little like Clara, but older and stiffer. Uncle Rick had been nice to them. He seemed very tired; he was always working.

 

Elena and Rick had gotten a divorce. Tobias tried to follow along, but was tripped up on words like _custody battle_ and _child support_. He hoped his parents never divorced, because it sounded overcomplicated.

 

Apparently Elena had told the court that Rick beat them. She showed them pictures of Tiffany’s bruises, saying they were from Rick’s belt, and gave them medical files detailing how she had broken her arm after he pushed her down the stairs. She won the battle and took Tiffany away. But only a few months later, Elena was taken to the hospital. She’d had a “breakdown” and tried to hurt herself.

 

Rick had called Lorenzo, begging for help. Elena is crazy, he said. She used my belts to beat Tiffany while I was at work. She fell down the stairs by accident and blamed me. She has a restraining order against me for things I never did. Lorenzo offered to take Tiffany in, but he was having health problems and it just wouldn’t have been practical.

 

So Clara stepped in. Tiffany was going to live with them at Neverland until things were all figured out.

 

But things never really did get figured out. Clara believed her sister was telling the truth. Rick was constantly calling and asking about Tiffany, and every time Clara would tell him no, he couldn’t see her, and hang up.

 

Michael felt sorry for Rick. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who would abuse his wife and daughter. After all, Elena was the one who had suffered a breakdown, who had tried to kill herself. Maybe he was the real victim.

 

And poor little Tiffany! By 1990, Tobias was tired of hearing about poor little Tiffany.

 

It was after Clara’s funeral that things finally came to a head. She was buried at Neverland, a little ways off the beaten path of the main grounds. A tombstone marked the ground where they had laid her to rest.

 

Arthur was sitting on a bench underneath a tree, crying like a baby. D was beside him, showing no emotion. Tobias was kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe. Tiffany was there, dressed in black like the rest of them, her cornsilk hair blowing in the breeze. The adults were all inside, a few watching from the window. Michael had disappeared in his room after the ceremony, isolating himself.

 

Tobias hurt. He ached all over. He tried not to think about his mother lying in the cold, dark ground, but he couldn’t help it.

 

And then, a spark ignited. He looked at Tiffany. “Go away,” he said.

 

She looked back at him. Her eyes were blue, like her mother. Like his mother.

 

“Go away,” he said, louder this time, “Leave! Get out of here! We don’t want you!”

 

But she just kept staring at him. He shoved her. She fell on the ground, and her face scrunched up. She was about to start crying.

 

His fingers wound their way around her hair, tangling in the pale yellow curls. He yanked. Her muffled sobs turned to screams of pain.

 

“Stop it!” Arthur yelled. He was standing up, his eyes still glassy.

 

Tobias ignored him. He dragged the shrieking girl by the hair across the yard. She was the reason his parents had argued, why Clara had left the house that rainy night. In his mind, she had killed Clara herself with her own bare hands.

 

Arthur ran over, yelling. He tackled Tobias from behind. All three of them were on the ground, Tobias still hanging on to Tiffany’s hair, but with Arthur’s arms around his waist, his hands around Tobias’ wrists.

 

They wrestled. The door to the house opened. Relatives poured out—Joe, Katherine, Lorenzo, his aunts and uncles. Katherine took Tiffany, Lorenzo grabbed Arthur, and Joe snatched up Tobias, shaking him like a ragdoll.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!”

 

Tears blurred Tobias’ vision. He didn’t answer.

 

“You ought to have your ass beat,” Joe growled. He dropped him on his feet and pulled him toward the house. They passed by Aunt Janet as she picked up the passive D from the bench. Just beyond them he could see Elena in the window, her palms pressed against the glass, her eyes sunken and gleaming.

 

That evening, Lorenzo and Vanessa took Elena and Tiffany with them to Italy. It was the last time Tobias ever saw her.

 

***

 

“What happened to Tiffany?”

 

Lorenzo looked up. He’d finally come to visit Tobias in the hospital, after a bit of reminding.

 

“Well, she finished school, went off to college. She works with computer software. I think she might be living with her father. His health is very poor. Why do you ask?”

 

“Just wondering. And Aunt Elena?”

 

“She lives with her mother. They diagnosed her with the schizophrenia five years ago,” Lorenzo stroked his beard and sighed, “I didn’t tell you these things because I thought you didn’t want to know.”

 

Tobias bit his lip and smirked. “Should have figured I’d want to know someday. After all, they’re family.”

 

But there was a sour taste in his mouth as he said it.

 

He remembered December 9, 1993. The day before Michael came home from rehab. D’s seventh birthday on New Year’s Eve a few weeks away. The strip search in eleven days, the public statement in twelve.

 

It was the day Elena accused Michael of abusing Tiffany. The day she became another face in the crowd of children his father had supposedly molested. But this was much worse, because she was his late wife’s niece, wasn’t she? How could anyone do such a thing?

 

The same picture of her was reproduced on every news channel. She was wearing the denim overalls, the same ones she’d worn the day Clara died.

 

 

It didn’t matter that Elena’s claims fell apart under scrutiny. She tried to piece together the abuse stories she’d fed the divorce court about Rick with a few of the details of Tiffany’s year-long stay at Neverland. But once it was suggested, it became very easy to believe he could have molested his own children, too.

 

For sixteen years, the Jackson sons had endured reporters demanding to know whether or not their father had molested them. It didn’t matter how many times they said “No”. Michael had obviously used his fame, his money, and his power to brainwash them!

 

 

Eventually, Tobias learned to tune them out. Arthur didn’t, but that was his problem. And D—D never felt anything at all to begin with.

 

 

None of it ever mattered, so long as your name was Jackson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photo used to represent Tiffany is of child actress Sofia Vassilieva.


	6. Tears in Rain

Interlude: Tears In Rain

 

Cold sweat covered Michael’s skin, soaking into the sheets. He was awash in heat, his body licked by invisible flames. A grayish film covered his eyes, obscuring his vision, but he could sense movement above him.

 

_“Are you sure this will work?”_ a muffled voice asked.

 

_“I’ve taken all the necessary precautions.”_

 

_“If anything goes wrong, I’ll correct it. But you’ll be held responsible.”_

 

The shapes were growing fainter, the gray receding. Light and color returned in a blaze of sound and fury.

 

Blinking and squinting in the sudden brightness, he turned around slowly. He was standing in his old bedroom at Hayvenhurst. There was the massive shelf that took up an entire wall, stacked with books, tapes, figurines, and his old TV. And beside it, his bed—with Clara sitting on the edge of it.

 

She was distracted, looking down at a notebook on her lap. Michael gaped at her. He had to be either dreaming or dead…

 

Raising her head, she closed the notebook and set it on the mattress next to her.

 

“Clara, I…” he began, but found he had no words. Ever since she died, he had thought often of all the things he wanted to say to her, if only he had the chance. Now that the opportunity was given to him, he had no idea where to begin.

 

Clara couldn’t hear him, though. She lay down on his bed— _their_ bed, he reminded himself—and sighed. Without saying a word, Michael lay down beside her. But she ignored his presence, didn’t react to the back of his hand brushing against her cheek. It was as if he were a ghost.

 

Her hair hung loose and wild around her shoulders. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, reassure himself that she was really there. But if she couldn’t see him, couldn’t feel him, what would it matter?

 

After a few minutes she stood. He sat up and watched her walk around the bedroom, examining the figurines on the shelves, flipping through the pages of the books, running a finger over the row of tapes. She turned on the radio and raised the volume to almost deafening levels.

 

_You never call me up_

_When I’m alone at night_

_What can this poor boy do,_

_When he’s hopelessly in love with you?_

 

A very odd expression passed over her face. He wasn’t sure if it was surprise, confusion, distress—or all three.

 

_Hopelessly in love_

_Hopelessly in love_

_Hopelessly in love with you—_

 

She turned the radio off and sat down again. He peered over her shoulder at a newspaper lying on the table. It was open to the movies section. At the top of the list was _Back to the Future_.

 

It was the summer of 1985. He was twenty seven years old. Clara was twenty eight. They’d been married for almost two years. Tobias and Arthur were barely a year old, just beginning to toddle. He would be filming _Captain EO_ soon, going to the studio to slave over the demos of what would eventually become _Bad_ , recovering from the Pepsi burn accident. D would be born on New Year’s Eve next year, he was at the height of his powers, and he was just naming off events like a laundry list of his life. Was that all it amounted to?

 

He wrapped his arms around Clara’s shoulders and buried his face in her hair. Where had he been on this day in 1985? Working on something or other, no doubt. He was always working, and when he wasn’t he was playing with children, trying desperately to become a child himself. Where had Clara fit into it? Why hadn’t he put her first?

 

That day in 1985 was one of a thousand days they could have spent together, but didn’t. There was no making up for lost time. But he hadn’t known then that he would lose her.

 

The light faded, the colors dulled. He was waking up, going back to the future. Still he clung to her, willing some part of himself to stay there in that moment, where he had truly appreciated her.

 

In the dim light of the unfamiliar room, he felt numbly along his body, looking for fresh stitches, healing scars, incision marks, puncture wounds. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Then what had they done to him while he lay dreaming?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics to "The Party's Over (Hopelessly in Love)" belong to Journey.


	7. Hollywood Tonight

Part II, Phoenix; Chapter 1: Hollywood Tonight

 

Somewhere in the Australian wilderness, a movie called _Phoenix_ was being made. The sets had been built, the crew stood by with cameras ready, and the cast was in full costume, waiting for the go-ahead.

 

The director, a lanky young man with long hair, sat in his chair just behind the cameras. His name was James Vogel, and this was his first major film. Satisfied with what he saw, he leaned back, raised his megaphone, and yelled “Action!”

 

A single line of dialogue was spoken: “Sir, I think you better take a look at this…”

 

But nothing else was said, because upon the word _better_ , a drop of water plopped onto the cameraman’s nose and trickled down his chin. A few more flecks scattered at _look_ , and everyone realized it was raining by _this_.

 

James Vogel leaped to feet, flung down his megaphone, exclaimed “Fuck!” and stomped off. The cast and crew let out a collective groan and began to hurriedly collect their equipment, the props, and themselves before heading to the safety of their vehicles.

 

It was still raining by the afternoon, and it became clear they wouldn’t be getting any work done that day. This wouldn’t have been a problem, if it weren’t for the fact that they were twelve days already into their schedule and hadn’t shot enough footage to make up a single scene.

 

At seven o’clock, a man in a business suit arrived carrying a waterproof briefcase. James Vogel, who had come up with the idea for the movie, co-written the script, and supervised pre-production according to his vision, had been removed from his position as director by order of the studio.

 

A chauffeur drove him to the airport that night. There was a scene worthy of the cinemas in the parking lot. James, carrying hastily-packed luggage in either hand, fumed in silence as Evelyn Sharma, the lead actress in the movie and a close friend of his, argued with her agent.

 

“If he’s gone, the movie goes with him. There’s no point in any of us staying!” she shouted. Tears streamed down her pretty face, and her hand, each nail perfectly manicured, made a cutting motion in the air, indicating that they had hacked off the film’s head.

 

“If you leave with him,” her agent began, taking a deep breath, “the studio will bring a lawsuit against you for breaking your contract. Your career will be ruined.”

 

Evelyn began to sob in frustration. She looked to James for support, or perhaps only comfort, but was startled to find no sign of James. They called out his name and searched for him, but he was gone.

 

“He must have gone already. Didn’t want to miss his flight.”

 

She glared at her agent, but consented to return to the hotel.

 

The next morning, they discovered James had never gotten on the plane.

 

***

 

Music has power. It can make the listener feel just about any emotion. Memories long forgotten can be triggered by certain melodies. It paints a picture in the mind’s eye, images of fantasy and reality, past, present, and future.

 

Arthur Jackson lay uncovered in a hotel bed, for it was much too humid for even the thinnest sheets. Rain pounded against his window, but he drowned it out with his headphones.

 

Certain songs reminded him of certain people. He dutifully kept all his father’s albums with him, because he loved his father and found comfort in the sound of his voice. His current favorite was the dark and somber "Who Is It?", a fitting song given the circumstances.

 

He wasn’t crazy about the wild metallic sound of Tobias’ band, but he’d gone to Lazarus concerts and bought their music in support of his brother. The fact that he had been listening to them quite a lot lately betrayed how often Tobias was in his thoughts, primarily as a subject of concern.

 

When he needed cheering up, Arthur always turned to Electric Light Orchestra. His mother used to play their records when he was a child; he had fond memories of her dancing to “Turn to Stone” and “Evil Woman”. Their songs reminded him of her and simpler, happier times.

 

He didn’t always seek escapism in the music. Sometimes it was good to wallow in misery. That was where The Smiths came in. If Michael Jackson was the King of Pop, The Smiths were the Pope of Mope—most of the time, anyway. Years ago Arthur had heard them blaring from behind D’s bedroom door:

 

_I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour_

_But heaven knows I’m miserable now_

 

It was no use knocking to ask what it was, so he snuck into the bedroom later and found their entire discography. Of course they were D’s favorite band—they suited him perfectly.

 

_I was looking for a job, and then I found a job_

_And heaven knows I’m miserable now_

 

Arthur remembered how D had earned his nickname. Somewhere along the line two very naughty boys had seen a very naughty cartoon called _Vampire Hunter D_. Tobias and Arthur, noticing a strong resemblance between their baby brother and the hero of the movie, had put one of their father’s fedoras on little Donovan Jackson, flung a black coat over his shoulders, and called him D after the frightfully beautiful, ultra-cool son of Dracula. Maybe that suggestion had inspired the strange, sulking creature of today; either way, the name stuck.

 

_In my life, why do I give valuable time_

_To people who don’t care whether I live or die?_

 

Eventually, reality would come creeping in, disturbing his insulated reverie. Arthur knew that he was one of many floundering passengers on a sinking ship. Without its director, _Phoenix_ was doomed—he could only pray it didn’t drag him down with it.

 

***

 

He’d always wanted to be an actor. As a child he played elaborate games of pretend, making costumes and inventing scenarios. When Michael noticed, he sat him down and had a long, serious discussion, which basically boiled down to _Do you really want to do this?_ Arthur had looked into his father’s eyes, was reminded of how he talked about spending his childhood performing instead of playing, and shook his head no.

 

So it wasn’t until he was seventeen that he got his start. He was a supporting character in a sci-fi TV show called _Xeno_. It was considered an underrated cult favorite. People who had never watched it claimed it was a ripoff of _Star Trek_ , and people who did watch it said it was better than _Trek_. Neither side was quite right, but Arthur enjoyed it nonetheless.

 

It was a learning experience, but more importantly it was the most fun he ever had. He was working with people who loved what they were doing, who didn’t take themselves all that seriously, and didn’t care whose son he was.

 

The best of them was Merle Sinclair. He was a little bit like Lorenzo, though twenty years younger and minus the accent. While the cast all met each other before filming began, it wasn’t until shooting started that they had a conversation that wasn’t about the show.

 

During a break between takes, Merle had leaned toward him and whispered, “Did you know I once dated your mother?”

 

Arthur merely stared at him. With a grin, Merle continued, “High school. She was a senior, I was a junior. Didn’t last beyond graduation.”

 

Nodding awkwardly, Arthur raised his water bottle to his lips.

 

“Isn’t it strange to think I could’ve been your father, and now here I am playing your father?”

 

Arthur nearly choked, then recovered just enough to croak “Don’t say that out loud!”

 

“Why, because people might overhear and sell it as fact?” Merle patted him on the back. “Nobody worth your time would actually believe it. Besides, it’s the truth—I could’ve been your daddy, if I hadn’t been such an insufferable little bastard.”

 

Looking at him, it was easy to believe it—that Clara could’ve loved him once, not the bastard part. Merle was handsome, friendly, charming, reliable, and completely incorruptible.

 

It was Merle who took him to get his first drink when he turned twenty-one. That day, Michael was in court being accused of child sexual abuse. While the media made a circus out of the trial and photographers coyly snapped pictures from the windows of the bar, Arthur drowned his sorrows with hard, unforgiving liquor, knowing Merle would make sure he got home that night.

 

Even after the not-guilty verdict, things were never the same. Michael abandoned Neverland, where he had raised his children and buried his wife, and went into hiding with Prince, Paris, and Blanket. It was difficult to keep in touch with him, because he was constantly moving. Tobias was taking the world by storm as Lazarus, clawing his way out of their father’s shadow and becoming a star of his own. D went off to medical school somewhere no one had ever heard of, only to show up at Toby and Fatima’s wedding and a brief reunion at Christmas, then disappear again.

 

Arthur hardly spoke to any of them for the better part of a year. Out of loneliness he pretended the cast of _Xeno_ was his family, but it was a fragile fantasy at best, a pathetic delusion at worst. The world made a mockery of Michael Jackson, and as his offspring, he was looked upon with a mixture of horror, disgust, and pity.

 

That first drink in the bar proved a gateway to his own private oblivion. The days blurred together. He couldn’t keep a steady relationship, was always late for work. Though he knew he was sinking, he didn’t have the strength or the will to pull himself back up.

 

One day he was sitting in a bar in L.A., feeling sorry for himself, when a man with a thick mustache sat beside him.

 

“You shouldn’t drink so much on a night like this,” his neighbor said. There was something off about him. Arthur hadn’t really paid much attention to his face, and at first he assumed it was just the alcohol making him see things.

 

The man swept his empty glasses aside and put a hand on his shoulder. Arthur glared at him in annoyance. “What do you think you’re—”

 

“Time to go, Pendragon,” the man said. “We’re shooting the series finale tomorrow. You can’t afford to be hungover.”

 

Finally, Arthur understood. Obediently he allowed the disguised Merle to lead him out of the bar and into his car. Once he was in the driver’s seat, Merle ripped off his false mustache, hissed in pain, and started the engine.

 

“You really shouldn’t drink like that.”

 

Woozily, Arthur muttered, “Why do you care?”

 

“If you turn in a shoddy performance tomorrow—”

 

“Is it because of Mom?”

 

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’m the one who got you your first drink, and I feel responsible for starting you on the path to alcoholism. Or maybe it’s because I’m your friend, possibly the only one you’ve got at the moment. Or maybe I’m just feeling kind.” He glanced at Arthur. “What about you, Pendragon? Are you drinking because of your father?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

Merle made a humming noise of acknowledgement. They drove in silence for a few minutes, then suddenly Merle asked, “What do you know about Orson Welles?”

 

“Uh… _Citizen Kane_?”

 

“Exactly. The so-called greatest movie ever made. He directed it, produced it, wrote it, starred in it, all at the ripe old age of twenty five. But he made it a mockery of the life story of William Randolph Hearst, the guy who practically invented tabloids. That pissed Hearst off, so he did everything in his power to make sure the movie failed and Welles was ruined. It started out as simple stuff—paying critics to write bad reviews, blackmailing the studio, getting theaters to boycott the film. But the worst was yet to come.

 

“One night, Orson Welles was having dinner at a restaurant when a policeman walked up to him and asked him to come outside. Once they were out, the officer told him, ‘Don’t go back to your hotel room. There’s an underage girl in the closet undressed and two photographers waiting for you outside.’ He knew it was Hearst’s doing, part of a smear campaign,” he sighed, “Not that I’m saying Michael Jackson was as great as Orson Welles, but they both had similar experiences. There’s nothing new under the sun, is there?”

 

“Pull over,” Arthur mumbled.

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Pull over!”

 

The tires screeched. Arthur stumbled out and threw up on the grass.

 

***

 

With Xeno finished, he needed a new job. His agent found a superhero movie called _Neuromancer_. Since superhero movies were all the rage, it seemed like a good idea.

 

While he was waiting his turn for the audition, he happened to see a magazine with an article about himself. The basis of the report revolved around _heteropaternal superfecundation_ —an extremely rare occurrence in which twins are conceived by two different fathers. In other words, they were insinuating that Tobias was Michael’s son and Arthur was someone else’s. The long list of possible candidates for Arthur’s “true paternity” included Merle Sinclair.

 

The audition was excruciating. He walked out with his head hanging low, certain that he had blown it. Snatching the magazine up on his way out the door, he drove to a park downtown, cut the engine, and sat there with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

 

It was easy for Tobias; he didn’t care what other people thought. But Arthur couldn’t help caring. All the world could see what they wrote, making his mother into a whore and his father into a monster. He was sick and tired of it, but worse—he had no way of knowing what they would do next. It was only a matter of time before they went after him...

 

The magazine was on the seat beside him. He wondered who had sold them the story. Maybe it was one of the crew of _Xeno_ , overhearing what Merle had said four years ago. Anger began to flare in him. He snatched up the magazine, got out of the car, and threw it in the trash.

 

A week later, he got the part.

 

***

 

He could remember the day, the hour, the minute he walked into the blue room. There was a round table at the center, with three seats taken. Two men and a woman—the director, the producer, and the screenwriter. He shook hands with all three, but locked eyes with her.

 

“Hello, Mr. Jackson,” she said with a smirk. Her name was Morgan DeMille. She was three years older than him, originally from Milwaukee, and had astonishingly poor timing.

 

Case in point: Three months later, when he was being fitted into an overly-complicated black suit covered in cage-like glowing neon lights, she marched into the dressing room and hissed, “I need to talk to you.”

 

“Can it wait a few minutes?” he asked, gesturing at the haggard assistant pinning and zippering him into the costume.

 

“I’m pregnant and you’re the father.”

 

In that moment he felt a million different pathways to the future open up. But he was afraid to say anything, so he just stood there, staring at her in silence.

 

She informed him that she didn’t believe in abortion or marriage; they were both misogynistic burdens placed on women by the patriarchy in an attempt to shame them for being sexually independent. With that in mind, she imagined he would want to share custody with her, correct? That would require a legal settlement, which meant they would have to go to court. Most likely he would see the child every other weekend and on a few select holidays. Did that sound good?

 

He nodded mechanically, and she walked out of the dressing room. Once she was gone, it occurred to him that he didn’t remember sleeping with her. Then again, he had plenty of gaps in his memory thanks to his booze problem, and he hadn’t always been careful in the past...

 

 

“Should’ve kept it in your pants,” the assistant muttered, snapping the last piece of the suit into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics to "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" belong to The Smiths.


	8. The Sensualist

Part II, Phoenix; Chapter 2: The Sensualist

 

_August 2009_

_  
_

_Australia_

 

His phone was ringing. Fumbling on his nightstand, he raised the phone to his ear and rasped, “Hello?”

 

“Hi Daddy!”

 

Despite his grogginess, a smile instantly crossed his face. “Joie!” Glancing at the clock, he asked, “What are you doing up so early?”

 

He heard childish giggling on the line. “It’s not early!”

 

“It is for me!”

 

Beside him, the sheets moved and a muffled groan could be heard. Arthur quietly slipped out of bed and into the bathroom, closing the door. His reflection in the mirror looked unhealthily pale.

 

“Mommy said you’re in the future right now. Is that for real?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

“I did say! Are you a time traveler?”

 

“No. I’m just in Australia.”

 

“Will you bring me back a kangaroo?”

 

“They have to stay here in their natural habitat. It’s where they’re happy.”

 

“Then take a picture of one, please,” there was a brief silence, “Daddy, did Grandpa go to Heaven?”

 

A lump rose in his throat. Swallowing it, he answered, “Of course, baby.”

 

“Mommy said there’s no such thing as Heaven. She said you made it up.”

 

“I didn’t make it up.”

 

“I told her so. She said you lied to make me feel better. Did you go to Australia to look for him?”

 

“No, I—”

 

On the other line, he could hear a muffled voice in the background.

 

“I gotta go now. Bye Daddy!”

 

“Bye baby.”

 

She hung up. Arthur dropped the phone on the bathroom counter and rubbed his eyes before opening the door.

 

On the other side of the bed, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen was watching him, her head perched on her fist.

 

“Sorry for waking you,” he whispered.

 

“Was that your daughter?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

He lay down beside her. It was too warm even for sheets.

 

“I’m glad to see you care about her. A lot of guys in your position wouldn’t give a damn.” She rolled over on her side, facing him. “Arthur?”

 

He turned his head. “Yeah?”

 

“Did you ever love Morgan DeMille?”

 

The humidity was oppressive. His bare skin was already beginning to break out in a sweat.

 

“No. I was stupid, and I made a mistake.” Then, realizing how he sounded, he quickly added, “Good things can still come from bad choices.”

 

She fell silent. Sighing, he started to nod off.

 

“Do you love me?”

 

He opened his eyes. She watched him closely, nervous and vulnerable.

 

There was a tangible expectancy hanging between them. He had waited his whole life for someone to ask him that question. Now that the moment had arrived, he was both terrified and ecstatic to answer.

 

“Yes.”

 

And it was true, as he understood it—she made him happy. Guilty, too, and remorseful for all the other women who had come before her in his life. Because he knew what it was like now, to love.

 

There was another question sitting eagerly in his throat, longing to spring forth from his lips. But she looked so content at his answer, he didn’t dare spoil it.

 

The question was, of course, _Do you love me, too?_

 

***

 

On the third of June, 2006, Johanna Jackson was born.

 

Months beforehand, he told his family everything. He hadn’t meant to spill his guts, but once he started, the rest just came tumbling out.

 

While Tobias had stayed stone-faced while Arthur admitted to alcoholism and philandry, his father’s gaze had slowly sunk to the floor. Of all the emotions he expected from Michael, disappointment was what he got, and it was disappointment that was the hardest to bear.

 

As soon as he stopped speaking, Tobias grabbed Arthur’s arm and pulled him aside, whispering, “Get a paternity test. Make sure she’s telling the truth.”

 

“She has no reason to lie.”

 

“No reason?” Tobias gaped at him. “Did you forget who you are? She’s just like any other groupie—she wants to be famous for having your baby and exploit you for child support. Isn’t it obvious?”

 

“I just—I don’t think she’s lying,” Arthur sighed, “I’ll do the test, of course. But sometimes… Sometimes I wonder if she _chose_ me. Like I was a sperm donor or something. She had to have known I was out of it and would forget to use protection. She could have said something—she _should_ have done something.”

 

“Must’ve been too dazzled by you,” Tobias muttered irritably.

 

Arthur shook his head. “She’s not that kind of woman. I just don’t understand how she could be that naïve. Unless she wanted this to happen...”

 

Before Tobias could ask him what he meant, Michael, who had slowly made his way over while they were talking, put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

 

“It’s okay.”

 

Arthur crumpled in his father’s arms. He couldn’t stop shaking.

 

D wouldn’t answer his calls.

 

***

 

_Neuromancer_ was a sleeper hit. He imagined the whole affair had only served to boost interest in the movie.

 

With a reputation ruined and a blockbuster under his belt, Arthur became a little more than the son of Michael Jackson. Every kid in America, ignorant of his transgressions, wanted to be the Neuromancer. He was an action figure, a toy, a costume. Money kept rolling in, profits from the selling of his likeness, the Arthur Jackson brand. Gladly, he accepted the funds; quietly, he donated most of it.

 

With what was left, he bought a house. It was a Victorian mansion, the kind with a tower shaped like an octagon. The closest neighbors were almost a mile away, and he found comfort in being protected from prying eyes.

 

The third of June arrived. He was late getting to the hospital. Someone must have tipped off the paparazzi, who had gathered around the entrance.

 

There were bodyguards all around to provide a buffer between him and them, but their voices, shrill, insistent, and demanding, reached his ears without a filter. The moment he opened the door he was bombarded with questions:

 

“Arthur, is the child really yours?”

 

“Arthur, what’s your current relationship with Miss DeMille?”

 

“Arthur, do you have anything to say about—”

 

“Arthur, has your father ever—”

 

The guards shoved their way through the crowd like satellites bouncing off meteors.

 

It was two in the morning. He was groggy, nervous, and unfocused. Mechanically he told the receptionist his name and why he was there; when a nurse appeared to lead him to Morgan, he had to drag himself along.

 

At that point, everything happened very quickly, becoming a hazy blur in his memory. A swarm of doctors buzzed around the bed where Morgan lay. He thought it was strange that she refused to make a sound. She was sweating, straining, and breathing very hard, but not once did she scream or cry or even curse.

 

And in spite of all the shuffling feet, whirring machinery, and latex-clad hands squeaking, Arthur was having trouble staying awake. He was rubbing the sand out of his bleary eyes when he heard a piercing wail. Jerking back to reality, he caught only a glimpse of gore-soaked flesh before the nurse turned away from him and walked through an open door.

 

Was something wrong? He looked at Morgan, who seemed to have fallen asleep. The doctors were still cleaning up the mess, and no one seemed particularly concerned.

 

He got the attention of a scrub-clad man who was passing by. “Where did they take the baby?”

 

“For a paternity test.”

 

“Right now?”

 

“She insisted.”

 

Following Tobias’ advice, Arthur had demanded proof that he was the father. Morgan had calmly informed him that there were only two methods of DNA testing in utero, and both were expensive, dangerous, and not covered by her insurance. “But if you wait until after she’s born,” she added in a carefully measured tone, “you’ll have your proof.”

 

“Can I see her?” Arthur asked, his tone urgent.

 

“I don’t see why not—”

 

The doctor had hardly finished his sentence before Arthur was out the door. It led to a small room consisting primarily of cabinets. The nurse had laid the baby, still whining faintly, down on an examination table and was gently wiping her off with a towel.

 

Arthur crept over to the side, making sure not to startle the woman, and peered over her shoulder. Tiny eyes darted about, squinting against the fluorescent lights. Even then, he could see that the irises were blue. It was the same shade of blue in Lorenzo’s eyes, in Aunt Elena’s, in his mother’s, in his own.

 

He touched her cheek lightly, and a plump fist clenched around his finger. She began to cry again, her chest heaving with each exhale of spent air.

 

While he watched, the nurse grabbed a cotton swab, stuck it in her rosebud mouth, made two quick strokes, and collected the sample in a plastic tube.

 

The lab was quick; they had the results within a couple of days. One hundred percent positive.

 

***

 

It was easy to get help for alcoholism. He passed billboards for Alcoholics Anonymous on his way to the studio. There were ads in the paper and on TV for local rehabilitation centers. A quick Internet search would lay out all options. Detox. Therapy. Medicine. Abstinence. Chew gum instead. Or was that just for smokers?

 

But if you went to a doctor in L.A. and told them you had a sex addiction, they would laugh. Addicted to sex? What a ridiculous idea! Promiscuity was perfectly natural, and not at all harmful, so long as the proper steps were taken to ensure safety.

 

Arthur went to therapy in order to stop drinking. They detoxed him, gave him medicine. He chewed gum instead. Before long, he had been clean for a year, then two years. The same could not be said of his other problem.

 

It wasn’t as if he didn’t try. He’d first found himself locked in a dressing room, his co-star sitting in his lap, slowly unbuttoning her shirt. All he needed to do was think of Morgan lying on the hospital bed, and suddenly he was redoing her buttons for her and babbling out an apology.

 

“What are you, some kind of prude?” the vixen sneered, “It’s because of that dumb bitch who got knocked up, isn’t it? I’m not that stupid. I’ve been on the pill since I was twelve!”

 

He distinctly remembered shoving her off his lap and slamming the door. It didn’t matter what everyone around him said. He knew this kind of behavior wasn’t normal, wasn’t healthy.

 

But it ran in the family. Joseph Jackson was a world-class adulterer, even fathering a child with another woman. His uncles had burned through sultry whores, pleading groupies, and hysterical fangirls as young men. You could populate a neighborhood with all their ex-wives. His aunts were no different. Even Lorenzo had left the mother of his children for Vanessa.

 

So it wasn’t long before he woke up one morning with another woman he barely knew in bed with him. There was no alcohol to cloud his senses anymore. He remembered giving in, and he had no excuses, save bad blood.

 

It was then that the memory of smudged purple eyeshadow and hands on the small of his back came back to him. Morgan had whispered in his ear, “You are the second most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

 

He had laughed, too drunk to fully process what she was saying. “Oh yeah? Who’s number one?”

 

It was still a little hazy, but he could have sworn she answered, “Your father.”

 

***

 

In late 2008, a company called Fortress Investments threatened to foreclose on Neverland. Michael Jackson was deeply in debt and could no longer afford to maintain a home he had vowed never to reside in again.

 

Just as quickly as his sons heard the news, Michael was telling them he had entered a new deal with another company, one that would clear him of his debts and allow him to keep Neverland. Of course, he would have to share ownership, but it was only temporary.

 

To add to their good fortunes, he was working on a new album, and had a series of concerts planned at the O2 theater in London. He was doing it mostly for Prince, Paris, and Blanket, who had never seen him perform live. Arthur planned on bringing Johanna, too, as soon as he had the time.

 

And then, just like that, everything stopped. Michael Jackson was dead, and with him went the hopes and dreams, the new beginnings, the will to fight.

 

“Oh, and the Internet crashed,” Morgan told him over the phone, “Too much traffic. 20% higher than normal...”

 

Arthur didn’t respond. He held the phone up to his ear, but he couldn’t feel the plastic, didn’t hear the words coming through. Shock would pervade him until the funeral; only then would he finally break down and weep.

 

Morgan sighed at his silence. “Do you want me to bring Johanna over?”

 

It was a Thursday. He wasn’t supposed to have her until next Friday.

 

“Please.”

 

Her car pulled into the driveway an hour later. Arthur was sitting on the front step.

 

Morgan got out of the car and opened the door to the backseat. He heard a thump and then the sound of feet pattering across the stone walkway. A tiny figure in a sky blue dress appeared in his line of sight, clutching a battered teddy bear.

 

“Daddy!”

 

Chubby arms wrapped around his neck and a head of curly brown hair nestled against his cheek.

 

Arthur held her close. “Oh, I missed you, baby.”

 

He could see Morgan leaning against her car, watching them through half-lidded eyes.

 

“Joie, go on inside. I want to talk to Mommy.”

 

Johanna obeyed without fuss. Arthur descended the rest of the steps and stood before Morgan. They just stared at each other.

 

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” Morgan asked coolly. Though she was very good at hiding it, he guessed that she was just as shaken as he was.

 

“I need you to tell me the truth.”

 

“About what?” she snapped, “You had your DNA test. What more could there be?”

 

“It’s not about that. I want to know why you had her.”

 

She glared at him. “The birth control failed. I told you I don’t believe in abortion. There was no other choice left but to have her.”

 

He shook his head. “Morgan—”

 

“You want to know why I fucked you in the first place? Is that it?” she snapped, “You want your ego stroked? You want me to tell you that I was all caught up in your charms, enraptured by your beauty? You want to believe that I was struck with awe and lust, that I could think of nothing else but my own gratification?”

 

She took a step forward, and he took a step back. Her eyes were wild with rage, and her voice seethed with venom.

 

“I’ll level with you. I’ll be honest. I wanted Michael Jackson, not you. I’ve wanted him my whole life. Fuck me for not being born famous like your mother.” She laughed callously. “Even though I eventually made it here, I didn’t think I’d ever have a chance—then you fell right into my lap. I thought I could be like Grushenka and play with both father and son. I knew you wouldn’t stick around willingly, so I made sure you had no choice.”

 

A sniffle broke her train of thought. Purplish tears streaked her face. “I was imagining him coming to visit his first grandchild. I wanted him to be there when she was born, not you. I thought you wouldn’t care, but I knew he would. I knew he would…”

 

Her voice cracked, and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing her makeup. Arthur was speechless. He felt hollow.

 

When he didn’t say anything, Morgan got in her car, still crying, and started the engine. He watched her drive away until she was out of sight, then slowly, he turned around and went into the house.

 

Johanna was in the living room watching TV. “Daddy’s here,” she announced to her teddy bear. Wearily he sat beside her, wrapping one arm around her and kissing the top of her head.

 

 

“Daddy’s here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grushenka is a character in _The Karamazov Brothers_ by Fyodor Dostoevsky. She is the object of the affections of a father and son, who fight viciously over her. I'm a hack in comparison, obviously, but I loved the book.


	9. Phoenix Rising

Part II, Phoenix; Chapter 3: Phoenix Rising

 

_August 2009_

_California, USA_

**  
**

Angelica Fotopoulos’ office was painted a comically ugly shade of yellow, probably intended to make the small room more cheerful. A window behind her desk let the sunshine in, but it did little to offset the terrible color of the walls.

**  
**

Arthur often found himself looking out the window, his gaze going right over the therapist’s head. A small fern was growing in a planter on the sill, the leaves soaking up the rays. Other times, he would stare at a painting on the wall to his right. It reminded him of a budding flower, with petals of orange, yellow, and red unfurling into a vibrant blossom. Or perhaps it was just a depiction of fire.

**  
**

He saw the painting and the window with the potted fern every Thursday at 10:30. Angelica, a pudgy middle-aged Greek woman with glasses, and her hideous office were familiar to him by now. So why couldn’t he talk to her?

**  
**

“Have you always been so shy?” she asked, tapping the air with her pencil’s eraser-end.

**  
**

He shrugged and looked down at his hands. “Yeah. Ever since I was a kid.”

**  
**

“Why do you think you’re so reserved?”

**  
**

“I’m afraid of talking to people. I’m afraid they’ll hurt me.” He smiled awkwardly. It looked more like a grimace. “Mom used to do all the talking for me, or Dad… or Toby…”

**  
**

“How does that make you feel?”

**  
**

Arthur resisted rolling his eyes. “I preferred it. It was safe that way. I didn’t have to worry about people manipulating me.”

**  
**

Morgan’s face flashed through his mind like a searing migraine. Tomorrow night she would come to drop Johanna off. These days, he could hardly stand to look at her, nor she at him.

**  
**

Angelica put her wrinkled hand on the shoebox sitting at one corner of her desk. Inside it were pictures cut out from magazines, each one representing the different aspects of Arthur’s life. He had thought the assignment was juvenile at first, like something an elementary school art class would do. Once the thing came together and he was able to give meaning to each little sliver of paper, he began to understand what it all meant.

**  
**

“Would you want to change that aspect of yourself? Your fear of others?” she asked. This was part of the project—finding more traits he hated about himself, to be written down and put in the box for safekeeping.

**  
**

“Sure,” he murmured, already reaching for the notepad. He scribbled the word _afraid_ and removed the cardboard lid. Amidst the jumbled scraps, he spotted a Budweiser ad, a picture of a muscle-bound video game character, a generic beach photo, and a pin-up of a voluptuous swimsuit model emerging from a pool. His gaze lingered on her. She had eyes like the painting, dark irises imbued with a reddish hue like crimson roses or burning embers. Her name was Evelyn Sharma.

**  
**

He shut the box a little too quickly. Angelica was studying him over the rims over her glasses. He had picked her because she wasn’t young and attractive, and therefore wasn’t a danger to him.

**  
**

“You seem a little distracted today. Is there anything you’d like to talk about?”

**  
**

Swallowing, he said, “I’m leaving for Australia on Tuesday, and I won’t be back for about four weeks, maybe longer. It’s for that movie I was telling you about…”

**  
**

***

**  
**

Hollywood had always been a machine first, a bed of creativity second. The machine chugged along, driven by hunger for profit, greed for money. Those who decided which project was funded were as far removed from the process as Pluto from the sun. It all boiled down to who could be convincing enough, who had the most intriguing idea—or rather, the idea most likely to succeed.

**  
**

Somehow James Vogel, a skinny long-haired kid whose only experience was in low-budget independent films, had convinced the studio to give him the money and resources to make his insane dream come true.

**  
**

“It’s set on a remote tropical island,” began his pitch, “A soldier washes ashore after a shipwreck. He is delirious and near-death. He’s found and taken to an elaborate compound in the forest…”

**  
**

Basically, the plot was _Frankenstein_ meets _Apocalypse Now_. The soldier found a mad scientist trying to bring back the dead. After trying to stop him, the soldier was imprisoned and experimented on, then he escaped and destroyed the laboratory. There were two twists: the soldier wasn’t shipwrecked after all, and the scientist’s lovely daughter was really a zombie. The studio couldn’t throw enough money at it.

**  
**

Part of the “resources” Mr. Vogel had access to included Arthur. He was under contractual obligation to accept roles like that of the soldier. After a bit of squirming—he was seeing a therapist and his father had just died; did they really want a mess like him starring in a major motion picture?—the studio reassured him he would only be needed for a month, and that he wasn’t the focus of the film. That honor went to Lance Everhart and Tristan Gale.

**  
**

Lance was arguably the most popular actor in Hollywood at the moment. He was certainly bigger than Arthur had ever been. And Tristan was legendary, bigger than either one of them would ever be. Putting the two of them together seemed the perfect combination, an infallible box office draw. And the men with the money were more than happy when Vogel cast his model friend, Evelyn Sharma, as the scientist’s daughter.

**  
**

The product of an Indian mother and a German father, she was the most beautiful woman Arthur had ever seen. At his therapy session the following Thursday, he found her picture by chance among the magazines. Fiery eyes and a gorgeous figure rising from the pool. And he was going to be spending a month in close proximity to her, pretending to be her lover?

**  
**

At Angelica’s behest, he tore her picture out and added it to the shoebox.

**  
**

***

**  
**

The night he arrived in Cairns, he received a phone call from the last person he would have expected.

**  
**

“Hello?”

**  
**

“Arthur?”

**  
**

His brow furrowed. “D?”

**  
**

“Yeah,” was the dismal reply.

**  
**

“Are you okay? You sound—”

**  
**

“I’m fine. I just have a cold, that’s all.”

**  
**

His answer might have convinced anyone else, but Arthur didn’t buy it. Maybe time was finally catching up with D. He was afraid to ask.

**  
**

“Well, uh… what’s up?”

**  
**

D’s tone changed from depressed to tired. “I’m sending you a package in the mail. Don’t open it until you’re finished with _Phoenix_.”

**  
**

“Why send me a package here when you could send it to my house?” Arthur asked, smirking faintly. He was surprised D even knew why he was there, much less the title of the movie he was working on.

**  
**

“Anyone can look up your address in California. Not everyone knows you’re staying in Australia right now. I don’t want anyone else to see it...”

**  
**

He was getting a funny feeling about all this. “Okay. But why do I have to wait?”

**  
**

“Trust me. You don’t want to be thinking about it while you’re trying to work.” D paused, and Arthur thought he could hear a faint humming noise in the background. “I can’t tell you anything else about it over the phone. I’m sorry. Bye.”

**  
**

The phone clicked before Arthur could return the farewell.

**  
**

While his thoughts occasionally wandered back to the conversation with D, Arthur had other things to worry about than secret packages.

**  
**

The film fell apart within the first two weeks. They hadn’t shot a single scene. Bad weather was the main problem, but the director was also to blame. James was shy, like Arthur, except he was in a world he was entirely unfamiliar with. It was difficult just to get him to come to meetings.

**  
**

It didn’t help that Lance was always arguing with him during rehearsals. Why are you doing it this way? Why not that way? What’s the point of this scene? What’s the point of this character? What’s it all for?

**  
**

Arthur could picture with perfect clarity the moment a red-faced James finally snapped, “Because it’s in the goddamn script, that’s why!”

**  
**

It was the day before he was fired. Looking back, Arthur wondered if that outburst was the real reason they kicked him off the project. Sleazeballs like Lance usually had deep strings they could pull.

**  
**

Speaking of Lance… well, there wasn’t much to say about him, really. He was almost a caricature, the stereotypical ultra-cool Hollywood brand of asshole. If Merle Sinclair had an evil twin who was everything he wasn’t, Lance Everhart was it. He was rude to everyone and obviously didn’t give a shit about anything more than his paycheck and his image.

**  
**

The main cast gathered to meet the new director, Frank Balk, at a pub in the city. In the shadowy half-light, Mr. Balk (as he demanded to be called) lit up a cigar and growled, “Let’s be clear. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m just here to get the job done.”

**  
**

Arthur swirled the contents of his glass. He hadn’t had a drink since Johanna was born, but the urge was still there, fed by his own frustration and uncertainty.

**  
**

He looked around the table at the rest of the cast. There was Lance, wearing sunglasses inside just because they looked cool, and Evelyn, dreary and tired, staring down at the wood grain. Tristan Gale had never shown up, and probably never would—his son had just committed suicide.

**  
**

His glass was empty, but he didn’t remember drinking it. It was so easy to forget.

**  
**

***

**  
**

He stumbled into the hotel lobby in a daze.

**  
**

“Mr. Jackson?”

**  
**

Blinking, he turned to face the owner of the voice. It was the guy behind the front desk. What were they called again? Receptionists?

**  
**

“Someone came about an hour ago with a package for you.”

**  
**

He sank into one of the plush chairs in the lobby. “Who?”

**  
**

The man shrugged. “A woman with red hair. She said it was very important. I’ve been keeping it in the back for you—”

**  
**

Forcing himself on his feet again, he staggered over to the desk. Sure enough, the package was there, all wrapped up in brown paper and string. It was terribly old-fashioned and completely adorable. Smiling like an idiot, he held the package the same tender way he held Johanna. Johanna… oh God…

**  
**

A manicured hand pressed against his back. He whirled around, still clutching the package.

**  
**

Evelyn was smiling at the man behind the desk. She must have said something to him, but he wasn’t paying attention—too busy staring at her.

**  
**

Then her hand was on his arm, leading him toward the elevator. With each step, the light changed the color of her eyes. Brown, then red, then orange, then black, like a kaleidoscope.

**  
**

He didn’t know what she was saying, didn’t know what she was thinking. Didn’t want to know what he had been thinking. But he stopped in his tracks, shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and mumbled, “Sorry, I think I left something—” before stumbling out of the hotel.

**  
**

Dropping the package on the ground, he threw up in a metal trash bin just outside the entrance. He was pretty sure he heard the click of a camera between retches. It was too dark to see much, anyway.

**  
**

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stooped to pick up the parcel and slowly made his way to his rented car. He cranked up the AC and sat there in the driver’s seat staring down at it.

**  
**

He’d already torn off the string and paper when he remembered D had told him to open it when his work was done. Ah well. How bad could it be?

**  
**

The box was taped shut, but the package itself was light as a feather. For a moment he wondered if it would be empty, and D was playing some kind of bizarre prank as payback for all the things they had done to him.

**  
**

It was never anything this serious, though. Stuff like putting a bucket of water over his door or “borrowing” his vinyls. D never seemed to care. No, there was no way this was a joke.

**  
**

He peeled off the tape and lifted the lid, not sure what to expect.

**  
**

***

**  
**

The year was 1990. He was six years old. Clara was tucking him into bed. His room was filled with toys that other less lucky children coveted. They lined the shelves and furniture like sentries guarding a castle.

**  
**

“Mommy, why did you and Daddy get married?” he asked.

**  
**

She looked a little startled by the question. In the last year of her life, Clara had grown thin, pale, and tired. He would realize years later that it was because of stress and grief, but as a boy he had feared the strange transformation that made her hands seem skeletal.

**  
**

“We loved each other,” she answered quickly.

**  
**

“But how did you start loving him?”

**  
**

A little more relaxed, she smoothed his blanket and said, “We met at a disco in 1980. I had actually gone there on a date with someone else. He just happened to be there that same night. I was a little embarrassed, because I didn’t really know who he was. Your grandmother never played the Jackson 5 for us, and I wasn’t interested in pop music anyway… But he was okay with it. It gave us more to talk about. And that’s pretty much what we did—we talked more that night than we danced.”

**  
**

“What about the person you went with?”

**  
**

“Oh, Alan?” one corner of her mouth turned up in a half smile, “He was a little upset, but he kept quiet and didn’t say anything to me about it. That was the way he was. He just took whatever happened to him, no matter how sad it made him. We’re still friends, you know.”

**  
**

Alan showed up at her funeral. Arthur remembered being introduced to him by someone, probably Lorenzo. He was a tall man with brown hair, a little awkward, but unassuming and friendly. If it weren’t for his huge-rimmed 80’s glasses, he would have been quite handsome. They said he was a writer, like his mother.

**  
**

After he, Toby, and Tiffany were dragged back into the house, he had looked out the window and saw Alan sitting next to D on the bench. At six years old, he hadn’t thought much of it. After all, they never saw Alan again.

**  
**

Or so he thought.

**  
**

Sitting in the rental car, Arthur turned the typewritten letter over and read it again. Was he dreaming? He pinched himself. Maybe it was the alcohol.

**  
**

But he knew he was sober. What he had just read was sobering enough.

**  
**

So was the photograph at the bottom of the box only there to add insult to injury? He held it up. It was of a smiling young brunette posing for the camera. She was wearing a stylish black dress, a necklace, and makeup that didn’t quite match the tone of the exposed skin on her shoulders. Nonetheless, she was a very pretty girl. Pretty like Clara.

**  
**

He turned it over. _Anastasia on her 21st birthday,_ was scribbled in blue ink on the back.

**  
**

Third time’s the charm. He read the letter over from the beginning.

**  
**

_Arthur Jackson,_

**_  
_ **

_My name is Alan Sheridan. I know that you’ll remember me. It may seem very strange that I’m writing to tell you this, but rest assured, there is simply no other way to explain it._

**_  
_ **

_Your mother, Clara Silvestri, is alive and well. But you will most likely never see her again, and so it makes no difference. You may wonder why I would tell you this information, when it will only hurt you. Your brother “D” believes you are the only person who deserves to know._

**_  
_ **

_Of course, you want proof that I am telling the truth. So, I have enclosed a photograph of my daughter Anastasia. You will no doubt notice the resemblance. As I imagine you have guessed already, Clara and I assumed false identities and married not long after she was supposed to have died. Anastasia has no idea who her parents really are, though she is always flattered when people say she looks like Clara Silvestri._

**_  
_ **

_I cannot tell you our location, obviously, but I have arranged a meeting with you and your brothers at Neverland Valley Ranch. If you come, I know you will understand better._

**_  
_ **

_Alan Sheridan_

**_  
_ **

_PS: I strongly recommend you destroy this letter after reading. The picture is disposable as well; I have a copy of it._

**  
**

He had even signed his name at the bottom.

**  
**

It was real. It was really happening. All of his worst fears come to life. Oh, D—D, don’t you know that joke isn’t funny anymore?

**  
**

***

**  
**

He was packing when he heard a knock on his door.

**  
**

It was Evelyn. He wanted to close the door in her face and forget she had ever been there, but she was just so beautiful he couldn’t move.

**  
**

“I wanted to apologize for any misunderstanding,” she said, her tone dead serious. Her arms were crossed. “Whatever you might have thought I was trying to do this evening… Well, I saw that you were drunk and I wanted to make sure you got home safely. That’s all there is to it.”

**  
**

“Okay.”

**  
**

She looked at him funny. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and said, “You won’t have to put up with me anymore, anyway. I’m leaving tomorrow morning, first thing. In fact, I was just packing.”

**  
**

“What? But you can’t just leave! You’re under contract too—the studio would sue you, your career would be ruined, and—and—”

**  
**

“I’m the son of Michael Jackson,” he interrupted, shrugging his shoulders, “Nobody can hurt me. And between you and me,” he leaned forward and whispered, “if I leave, the whole thing will fall through, and that means everyone else involved in this mess gets to walk away. They’re already beating a dead horse, so why not let me take the blame for burying the poor thing?”

**  
**

At first, she just stared at him. Then, slowly but surely, a smile spread across her face. She laughed. He laughed. And they both stood there in the doorway laughing like idiots.

**  
**

“Oh God!” she said suddenly, “What about James?”

**  
**

“What _about_ James?” he echoed.

**  
**

“He’s been living out in the wilderness ever since they sacked him. Everyone thinks he’s going to try and sabotage the production!”

**  
**

“Now that’s crazy!”

**  
**

“I know!”

**  
**

They laughed again.

**  
**

“And poor Mr. Balk—he hasn’t even been here a day, and you already want to quit!”

**  
**

He was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. “You make me want to stay after all!”

**  
**

“Well, why not? You can still quit then.”

**  
**

Reality kicked him in the gut. His sore cheeks were abruptly liberated, his sides given rest. Seeing his mood swing, Evelyn stopped laughing. She looked worried.

**  
**

He tried to smile reassuringly, but it was a ghost of his earlier giddiness.

**  
**

“Something just… came up. It’ll be okay. But I have to go and be with the people I love first.”

**  
**

The seconds ticked by slowly between them. She took a step forward and made like she was going to comfort him.

**  
**

He wrapped an arm around her, pulled her closer, and kissed her. It was a slow kiss. They barely moved. She didn’t stiffen up, not even at first, but he still pulled away long enough to let her decide.

**  
**

He watched her choose. The flicker of her fiery gaze from his face to the floor. Her hands sliding down his chest. She could have turned on her heel and walked away. But she circled around him, slipping through the open doorway.

  
That was her decision. His eyes never left her, even as he shut the door behind him.


	10. I Know It's Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I know it's over, still I cling_  
>  I don't know where else I can go  
> Over and over and over and over
> 
>  
> 
> _Over and over_
> 
>  
> 
> _I know it's over_  
>  And it never really began  
> But in my heart it was so real

Interlude II: "I Know It's Over"

Michael slept fitfully. Many times he awoke in pitch black and wondered if he had gone blind, only to drift away again.

**  
**

He dreamt of his children. Ageless and beautiful, they huddled around him, their arms draped over his body. The gesture was meant as a comfort, but the fever made their touch burn him. He grit his teeth and bore the pain, pulling them closer. Arthur and Tobias rested on either shoulder; Prince, Paris, and Blanket curled up in his lap. Only D remained distant, his hands reaching tentatively, fingers entwining with his own—

**  
**

Then, he was suddenly alive. The fever had passed, the delirium gone. He sat up and breathed.

**  
**

It was the same room as before. Disappointment drowned him—some part of him had been hoping his captivity was only a nightmare.

**  
**

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand. It was difficult at first, and he had no choice but to cling to the furniture for support. He wondered how long he had been bedridden. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but it seemed unlikely he would get any answers anytime soon.

**  
**

The wood floor was cold against his bare feet. He made his way slowly to the door and reached for the handle, expecting it to be locked. It wasn't.

**  
**

Slowly he eased it open and peered out. Beyond his room he could see only a hallway, the walls paneled and painted. Oddly, he noticed an old-fashioned gas lamp jutting from the plaster, casting a dim, warm glow.

**  
**

He could hear voices off to his right. They were friendly and jovial, and there were enough of them to suggest a party. But that seemed rather unlikely, given the circumstances. Why would his foolish captors have a party when he was in the next room?

**  
**

For a moment he hesitated, then swung the door open wide. The hinges creaked loudly, and the voices grew suddenly quiet. A blaze of adrenaline ran through him as he stepped out onto the soft, warm carpet that stretched from one end of the hall to the other. So, they had heard him—well, let them come! They couldn't keep him here forever!

**  
**

Footsteps. Fine leather shoes, by the sound of them. Michael looked up and saw a familiar face in the gaslight.

**  
**

"D?"

**  
**

D looked a little startled, but he quickly recovered his composure.

**  
**

"You're up early."

**  
**

"It's nighttime, isn't it?" Michael said, gesturing at the lamp.

**  
**

"Christmas Eve, to be exact."

**  
**

"Christmas Eve? How long have I—"

**  
**

"It's a very long story, Dad," D interrupted. He pushed the door to the bedroom open. "I don't think you're ready for it yet."

**  
**

"What? If you think I'm going back in there, you're wrong. I want some answers!"

**  
**

Another figure had appeared at the end of the hall—a woman. Michael noticed for the first time the way she and D were dressed: old-fashioned and ultra-formal.

**  
**

"D, what is going on here?"

**  
**

The look in his son's eyes was strange and frightening.

**  
**

"I told you it was a long story. Please. I'll tell you everything I can. But not out here..."

**  
**

Michael, his eyes trained on the woman, backed up into the bedroom. D turned and nodded at her, then closed the door.

**  
**

The questions came bubbling forth.

**  
**

"Where are we? What is this place? Who was that woman? Why are you dressed like that?"

**  
**

"Sit down," D ordered. He had his back to Michael.

**  
**

Michael sat on the edge of the bed. Very slowly, D turned around to face him. The bedroom was brighter than the rest of the house, and Michael could see him far more clearly.

**  
**

"Oh my God. D, what happened to you?"

**  
**

D laughed. "What's the matter?"

**  
**

“Your face. It’s… you look—”

**  
**

“Older? Well, I ought to. It’s been ten years since I last saw you.”

**  
**

"Ten years?!"

**  
**

"Not for you. You've only been here for a few weeks." D frowned and sat down beside his father. "See, I told you it was a long story..."

**  
**

Michael stared at him. Seized by a sudden impulse, he pulled D close to him.

**  
**

"You've got to tell me what's happening—I feel like I'm going crazy—"

**  
**

D returned Michael's embrace. "I know. And even if I do try to explain it to you, it will probably never make sense. I'll try, though."

**  
**

Elsewhere in the building, the high-pitched giggling and shrieking of children could be heard. Michael cast a questioning glance at D, who half-smiled.

**  
**

"That was my wife Christine in the hall. We have three children. Lawrence is the oldest. He's nine. Then there's Kathy, who's six, and Michael, who's nearly three—"

**  
**

"But how is it possible?"

**  
**

D flinched. "What's the last thing you remember?"

**  
**

"I was trying to get some sleep."

**  
**

"And Dr. Murray gave you Propofol to help you sleep."

**  
**

“Well, yes—”

**  
**

“He gave you too much, Dad. An overdose.”

**  
**

“Okay. So what happened then?”

**  
**

“You died.”

**  
**

“This isn’t the time for jokes.”

**  
**

“I wasn’t joking. You really were dead. Heart attack. Brain dead. You were gone.”

**  
**

“But I’m here now, aren’t I? I’m alive, D!”

**  
**

“You should have died.”

**  
**

At this stunning revelation, Michael fell silent. D grabbed his hand.

**  
**

“The point is, I—we saved you. It took a lot of work and sleight-of-hand, but we managed to get you out of there and into the Machine…”

**  
**

“Machine?”

**  
**

“That one’s too difficult to explain. There’s just not enough time. The Machine is what allowed us to fix you. Once you were stabilized, we knocked you out and put you in. It gave you a heart transplant, I suppose.”

**  
**

“You suppose?”

**  
**

“Not even I know the specifics. I just did what I was told.”

**  
**

Michael frowned. “That doesn’t explain why you’re ten years older.”

**  
**

“Oh, that—it’s a, um, a side effect.”

**  
**

“Of what?”

**  
**

“In order to save you, I had to come here. The Machine is here, Christine is here, everything is here… I’m sorry, Dad. I can’t really explain it in just two hours. It’s confusing even to me sometimes.”

**  
**

“Two hours?”

**  
**

“An hour and forty five minutes, now. That’s how long until Alan comes to take you back.”

**  
**

“Alan? Take me back?—“

**  
**

“Alan Sheridan. He’s the one behind the whole operation. He got you out, and he’s going to take you back, too.”

**  
**

_Alan Sheridan._ The name sounded familiar.

**  
**

“You never told me where we are.”

**  
**

“A place called Quagmire.”

**  
**

“In what country? What state?”

**  
**

D smiled. “Just know that you’re in my house, with my family, in a safe place. You’ll be going home soon.”

**  
**

“And what about you?”

**  
**

That wiped the smile off D’s face. Michael knew his cheerful demeanor had been an act all along—D had never been that lighthearted in his life.

**  
**

“You’ll see me again. But I won’t see you.”

**  
**

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

**  
**

D met Michael’s eyes. He hadn’t seen the boy cry since he was a baby, but now the tears were brimming, on the verge of spilling.

**  
**

“Dad… can we forget the questions for now? This is the last time I’ll ever see you, and it’s the only chance you’ll get to meet my children. It’s an opportunity you just can’t miss.”

**  
**

Without understanding why his son was weeping, Michael nodded.

**  
**

“Okay.”

**  
**

Glad to have his mind off the impending loss of his father, D fetched a change of clothes. They were simple garments, reminiscent of an earlier era. Michael pulled them on and sighed.

**  
**

“I must look like a complete mess.”

**  
**

“They won’t mind. Come on—we’re wasting time.”

**  
**

Glumly, Michael followed D out of the bedroom and down the hall. By then the voices had changed—now they were singing.

**  
**

_God rest ye merry gentlemen_

_Let nothing you dismay!_

_For Jesus Christ our Savior,_

_Was born on Christmas day!_

**  
**

Leading the carol was a strong, controlled tenor, obviously that of an experienced singer. Around him warbled the three children, wispy sopranos; a crystalline girl’s voice rose over them; two raspy, mature contraltos supported her.

**  
**

In an antique parlor straight out of Dickens, he came face to face with the strange choir, who fell silent upon his arrival.

**  
**

“I’d like you all to welcome my father, Michael Jackson.”

**  
**

Michael’s face grew warm. He braced himself for their reaction. After all, it wasn’t every day Michael Jackson showed up at your Christmas party.

**  
**

But no one seemed to recognize him.

**  
**

D led him around the room, providing introductions. Doe-eyed Christine smiled at him and shook his hand. The tenor was her manic redhead brother, Danny; the other contralto was his drowsy black-haired wife Bridget, and the girl was his blushing teenaged daughter, Maria.

**  
**

At some point Michael found himself sitting with Lawrence and Kathy on either side of him and little Michael in his lap. He felt like he was lost in a dream. The calm toddler in his arms was the only thing keeping him rooted in reality.

**  
**

“Daddy has a daddy too?” Kathy asked her mother.

**  
**

“Of course. Everyone has a daddy.”

**  
**

The child clasped her chubby hands together excitedly. Michael was reminded of his sister Janet when she was young.

**  
**

Lawrence peered up at him with Silvestri-blue eyes. He bore a striking resemblance to Arthur, but there was something more like Tobias in his hard stare.

**  
**

“Are you really our grandfather?”

**  
**

“I must be,” Michael whispered.

**  
**

The boy nodded, as though his acceptance of this fact would bring Michael comfort. In a way, it did.

 

“It’s too bad Alistair couldn’t make it,” Danny muttered, “He was always the life of the party. Well, afterlife, anyway. And only at a dead man's party.”

  
That earned a few chuckles. Maria looked as if she might say something in defense of the missing guest, but kept her mouth shut.

**  
**

Michael wasn’t sure what to make of these people. Their clothes were strange. Their accents were unfamiliar. They told tall tales laced with dialect and rhetoric. There even seemed to be something off about their faces. But Michael found himself warming up to the bizarre bunch. It was plain why D had attached himself to them—they suited him perfectly.

**  
**

Before long the singing had started up again, this time with two more voices. D’s mixed with everyone else’s, indiscernible. Michael belted out the familiar lyrics. Though D claimed he’d only been sick for a few weeks, it might as well have been ten years for him too. It had been too long since he was able to sing without a care.

**  
**

The child Michael fell asleep. Michael too began to doze off, forgetting his troubles. He was content to sit with these oddly endearing folks, listening to their crazy stories and the timbre of their exotic voices.

**  
**

But then, there was a knock at the door.

**  
**

As master of the house, all eyes turned to D. He didn’t move. His expression was eerily blank.

**  
**

It was Danny who stood and went to answer the door. If he exchanged any words with the new arrival, they didn’t hear it.

**  
**

Footsteps grew louder. The final guest stood before them. He wore glasses with large frames.

**  
**

“Alan Sheridan,” Michael breathed. He recognized him. _Why was he involved in all this?_

**  
**

Alan smirked. “I’m here to take you back. Hurry up—there’s not much time.”

**  
**

Michael passed the baby to Christine, stood up, and turned to D.

**  
**

“I guess I have to go now, then.”

**  
**

D shut his eyes and said nothing. Michael reached out as if to hug him, but thought better of it.

**  
**

“Goodbye, everyone. It was nice meeting you.”

**  
**

There were a few murmurs of agreement. Michael smiled at them, cast a final wary glance at D, and left.

**  
**

The moment the door shut, D ran out of the room. Christine leaped up to follow him, but she hadn’t even reached the hall before they heard a door slam in another part of the house.

**  
**

Outside, there was snow on the ground. Michael wrapped the jacket D had given him tighter around himself and shivered.

**  
**

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to answer my questions, Alan?”

**  
**

Alan put his arm around Michael’s shoulders and said something rather cryptic:

  
“None of it matters in the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the lyrics to "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen". Chapter is named after the song of the same title by The Smiths.


End file.
